


Oceans Rise, Empires Fall (we have seen each other through it all)

by writing_as_tracey



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Back to Earth, Dubious Science, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Genre: Action-Adventure, Genre: Political Thriller, Genre: Post-Apocalypse, Genre: slowburn romance, Girls Kicking Ass, Guard Bellamy Blake, Jake Griffin Lives, M/M, Princess Clarke Griffin, Princess Mechanic Besties, Sporadic Updates if At All, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23700484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_as_tracey/pseuds/writing_as_tracey
Summary: In another world, Diana Sydney would wait until she knew the ground was liveable - but this is not that world. The Ark splinters to Earth 10 years earlier, and Jake and Clarke Griffin are in the wrong place at the wrong time, trying to survive Earth. Massive Canon-Divergence.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin & Jake Griffin, Clarke Griffin/Roan
Comments: 106
Kudos: 188





	1. Space

**Author's Note:**

> One: I researched way too much for this story. As cool as Praimfaya can be, that's not how nuclear reactor meltdowns work. And unless The 100 took place in an alt-history timeline to ours where in 20 years we could have mega-nuclear reactors after Chernobyl, Three Mile, and Fukushima, the science just does not compute. So, for the sake of being a scientific AU, no Praimfaya. Everything else (Mountain clan, ALIE) is fair game.
> 
> Two: I have an obsession with father/child fics. If you browse my bookmarks you’ll know that a lot of my favs revolve around Darth Vader & Luke and IronDad & SpideySon. I have a lot of thoughts and feels about dads and their sons, okay? I thought it was time for some awesome dads and daughters in this one, though!
> 
> Three: I was heavily inspired by steampunk and post-apocalyptic sci-fi/fantasy: Miyazaki's _Castle in the Sky_ and _Howl’s Moving Castle_ ; AMC’s _Into the Badlands_ ; and for quite a lot of the space science, _the Expanse_ and Netflix’s _Lost in Space_.

Oceans Rise, Empires Fall (we have seen each other through it all)

Kneazle / writing-as-tracey

*

 **Summary** : In another world, Diana Sydney would wait until she knew the ground was liveable - but this is not that world. The Ark splinters to Earth 10 years earlier, and Jake and Clarke Griffin are in the wrong place at the wrong time, trying to survive Earth. Massive Canon-Div. AU. No S5.

* * *

 **BEFORE** :

It was a matter of bad luck. Of being in the wrong place, at the wrong time. A fluke, even - but in less than twenty-four hours, Clarke Griffin's life had forever changed.

In another world, Diana Sydney would wait until she knew the ground was liveable. She would organize disgruntled, fellow citizens of the Ark -- from Factory, from Agro, from whatever station she could -- and entice them to rebel. But waiting until the Ark was in dire straits does not help her because it is a time when people were pulled in too many directions (children being sent to earth, the Ark running out of the air, the volunteers dying to buy them time--). But those that follow her plant a bomb that would kill many during Unity Day and then steal the last Dropship to take to earth.

She, and those that followed her, would die.

But in this world...? 

* * *

**SPACE** :

"Are you going to keep out of trouble, kiddo?" teased Jake Griffin, glancing down at his eight-year-old daughter, who pouted and rolled her eyes. 

"Dad," whined Clarke, clutching her sketchbook tight against her chest. 

Jake's blue eyes -- which he shared with his daughter -- crinkled up at the sides. "I think it's a fair question; you _did_ get into an argument with your mom about your recent detention."

"It's not like that," mumbled the girl, looking down at the polished grey floor of Mecha station instead of her father. "And it was worth it."

"Didn't say it wasn't," replied Jake carefully and lightly. "Just that it is fairly unusual for you and your mom to have screaming matches like that. Don't think I've heard such language since the World Cup in 2050."

Clarke grimaced, falling silent.

Their steps echoed around the metal hallway, with only a few people passing them, many nodding to Jake amiably. The corridor leading from Alpha Station brought them through to GoSci - an offshoot leading to the hydroponics in Agro Station and Orchid Station for their greenery and the arboretum, although it was never used that way anymore -; the main water supply and filtration system in Hydra Station, and then through a large, extended hall that could fit ten walking abreast through Factory Station’s main connection to the final stations.

Finally, the corridor opened up, emerging into a large flat space with several options before them: two to their left, and two corridors to the right. The two to the left would take people to the massive rotations of Arrow Station, including the Skybox prison and guard’s armory, and Tesla Station, which powered the entire Ark through solar panels; while the two to the right - where they were going - would give them either Flint Station where the boilers, forges, and 3D printers were - or Mecha Station.

Jake turned, leading Clarke with a large hand on her back so she wouldn’t get lost in the crowd of drab grey and morose faces, all looking down or busy, as they passed through the Mecha Station gate. People began to trickle down from the busy Factory station, many who greeted Jake with a smile.

There were multiple rooms, hangars, and cubbyholes in Mecha Station: some were just stockpiles of scrap metal; some were living quarters and suites; some were large spaces with defunct space pods or the remnants of them that some ancestor had decommissioned. 

Most people worked in the hangars and control room, monitoring the repair of the systems in the Ark or conducting routine checks in various places to ensure everything was still maintaining airtight quality. Mecha station technicians were often younger than others, lithe and able to wiggle into tight spaces to find issues and errors with piping, cables, or panels. Not as dirty as the janitorial or cleanup crew duties often assigned to those in Factory Station, but still unpleasant.

For Jake, his goal was Hangar Bay 1 on B-dock.

As they walked, he explained his daily duties for Clarke’s sake - and to give her some space to cool down from her fight with her mother the previous evening. “--so I’m going to be spending some time monitoring issues that Sinclair found while doing our latest check on the oxygen supply. I’m going to need you to stay in one spot.”

Clarke nodded, indicating her understanding.

Hangar Bay 1 was _extremely_ large for an Ark that was cobbled together by twelve foreign nations with different architectural spaceship designs. For someone who was used to the curved walls of the Ark, Hangar Bay 1’s rectangular three-floor tiered space was unique and different, and already Clarke could feel her fingers itch to grab her pencil and begin sketching the metal and chrome railings that swept three sides of the hangar, the large airlock door at the end where “汉加湾1” was sprawled in faded yellow and white paint. 

Opposite and perpendicular to the airlock door were two large slanted rectangular windows, offering a view of stars and space debris from previous satellites and junk expelled from the Ark over the years.

“Jake!” called a familiar voice, and Jake turned to see a stout, but smiling man with tanned skin and curly black hair make his way toward the two.

“Sinclair,” greeted Jake with a smile.

Sinclair was walking briskly toward them, with a smaller figure at his side looking around curiously at a cluster of technicians who were working with a blowtorch, nail guns, and drills. She looked around Clarke’s age, with long, swishy straight black hair, although her clothes were worn, and she was a bit on the grubby and lean side. There was a hungry look in her dark eyes when the two stopped a few feet from the Griffins.

“And who is this?” asked Sinclair nicely, bending a bit to address Clarke.

“This is my daughter, Clarke,” introduced Jake, while Clarke smiled, a bit nervously, at the new face and held out a hand that hesitantly peeled itself off her precious sketchbook. 

Sinclair took her hand and shook it, although he only clasped her fingers given the difference in their hand size. He then pushed the girl at his side forward a few steps, and she scowled up at him, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets and scuffing the toe of her worn boots on the shiny floor.

“This is Raven Reyes,” the other man said, almost rolling his eyes at her attitude. “This wrench monkey has been in and out of Mecha watching me for years before I finally asked her to join me once a week.”

Jake looked at Raven with curiosity and appreciation. “Are you interested in mechanics, Raven?”

Raven looked up at being addressed, and nodded once, sharply. 

“Interested?” Sinclair scoffed, looking incredibly proud. “She’s better than half my technicians, and she’s only nine.”

Jake grinned. “High praise, kid! What have you worked on so far?”

Encouraged by both men, Raven rattled off a list of simple and then technical, and then advanced machinery she had touched, including many she shouldn’t have. Clarke was lost by the time she listed off the third item.

“That’s really impressive,” whistled Jake, grinning. “Interested in apprenticing here in the future?”

“Yes,” said Raven, with all the force of someone who was going to do it, damn it, come hell or high water.

“The only problem was that although today is her day with me,” began Sinclair, “we had that emergency that called you down. I don’t want her near the hydraulic pistons in Deck G yet--”

“It’s fine,” waved off Jake. “Clarke’s with me too. As long as the girls stick together and don’t move from this Bay, I think they’ll be fine.” He glanced down at Clarke, who had been watching the Bay with careful eyes. “Clarke’s responsible enough.” He leaned a bit away from his daughter and mock-whispered to the other two: “She’s eight going on _thirty-_ eight.”

She glared at her father when the other two laughed.

“Raven, are you fine with staying here?” asked Sinclair.

She nodded.

Jake pointed at an upturned crate and several smaller boxes around it, and the girls settled on the two smaller, sitting side-by-side in awkward silence as Jake and Sinclair wandered off, discussing the issue Sinclair found.

Clarke fiddled with her sketchbook until Raven reached out and snatched it from her. “Hey!”

The other girl was already flipping through them, her mouth open. “These are _amazing_!”

“Oh. Thanks.” Clarke blushed, watching as Raven stopped on a sketch of a bird with a large wingspan and sharp beak in mid-flap. Tentatively, Clarke muttered, “T-This… this is a raven. Or I think, anyway. I saw it in a book. It’s -- it’s your namesake.”

“Wow,” breathed Raven, her fingers skimming the page and reverently touching the coarse paper. Eagerly, Raven turned to Clarke and thrust the sketchbook back at her. “What else do you have? What were you going to draw? Can you make sketches of things for me, too?”

Clarke blinked, and then, in the face of Raven’s enthusiasm, felt her mouth stretch into a smile -- one that was borne from someone other than her parents, Wells, or Wells’ father.

For the next hour, Raven would point something out in the Hangar, and Clarke would do a quick sketch, or if requested, a more detailed one. 

Soon images overlapped each other on one page, and Raven was laughing as she attempted between the two a game of “describe me” and failing spectacularly in her artistic ability.

Eventually, Raven climbed on top of the larger crate, letting one leg dangle behind Clarke as she began speaking about the systems and technical machinery she worked with; Clarke ended up doodling Raven in a spacesuit, outside of the Ark, fixing components.

“I’m gonna be the youngest zero-g mechanic _ever_ ,” stated Raven firmly. “I can’t wait to get out of this tin shell and take a _spacewalk_!” She sighed. “Can you imagine what the Earth looks like from out there?”

“You’ll have to describe it for me when you do so I can draw it,” requested Clarke, turning partially on her crate to hold up her sketchbook. Raven turned her head and grinned, propping herself up on an elbow when she saw a cartoon of her floating outside the Ark.

“I love it--”

 _BOOM_.

The entire station _shuddered_ and the lights flickered, blinking once, twice, then went out completely as the hum from the station went silent.

“Clarke?” whispered Raven, sitting up and reaching forward to grasp at her new friend.

Clarke fumbled with her sketchbook but reached an arm up and with some fumbles, she and Raven’s hands found each other. They tightly laced their fingers together.

 _Boom, boom, boom_ \- came in further succession, each tiny pop.

Someone screamed.

"Dad?" whispered Clarke, peering out into the gloom of the hangar. “Dad?!”

Someone fumbled in the dark and then Clarke saw the gleam of her father's blond hair through the large window, where moonbeam's lit up areas in the large hangar bay here and there.

"I'm here, Clarke," rumbled Jake, although there was something terse in his voice, even as he gently swept a hand over and down her curls. "Raven, are you alright?"

"Fine, Mr. G.," the other girl mumbled, trying to sound brave but her voice wobbled.

" _Jake?!_ " someone called, and Clarke could see the outline of her father - from where he crouched in front of her - to stand, although he kept a hand on her shoulder.

"Here," he called back.

"Thank God!" the voice continued, moving carefully until they were nearby. It was from Sinclair. "We're going to need our Environmental Engineer -- we're losing air by F-deck--"

Jake's form froze. "What?"

"Ridley thinks it was a bomb--"

_"What?"_

Jake moved swiftly then, away from Clarke and toward Sinclair, and soon both men were mumbling to each other. There was a loud, low thrum of noise and then the ever-present hum of the Ark turned back on, just as the lights flickered to life. People around the hanger bay cheered.

From where Clarke and Raven sat, on the upturned crate, she could see her father's face pale as his eyes darted around the hangar bay. He ran a hand over his mouth, hiding his deep frown. Clarke strained her ears to hear what they were saying, with Raven at her side leaning forward to hear as well.

"--seal F-deck--"

"--any Councilmembers nearby?"

"None."

"--anything else affected?"

"--maybe Tesla and Arrow Stations--"

"--think we're still attached--"

"--headcount going and find people--"

"--need information?"

Then Jake was walking back to her and Raven while Sinclair walked purposefully away in a different direction, and both made no effort to hide that they had been listening in. He eyed them both. They sat still.

"You do not move," he began, sternly. "You remain here, _on this box_ , the entire time unless Sinclair or myself tell you to go somewhere else. Understood?"

Clarke nodded and Raven said, softly, "Yes, sir."

"Good." Jake paused, and then quickly crouched and wrapped first Raven in a tight hug, and then Clarke in another, longer one, pressing a kiss to her temple. "We're going to get through this. I promise."

Clarke clutched at her father's shirt, holding on as long as she could as he stood until it slipped from the fabric and he walked away. Her hand felt itchy, burning, and empty.

Then Raven's slim hand slipped into it, and Clarke grasped it tightly, desperately.

* * *

Barely an hour later, whomever the workers in Mecha station under her father and Sinclair's direction could find, were huddled in the hangar bay, in clumps of groups. Jake stood with Sinclair and a few others -- notably Eddison Cheng from Tesla Station and Nikola Koltsova from Flint Station, both of whom were in charge there -- and a few of their aides, all looking at their tablets with increasingly tense frames.

Finally, with a worn, weary look to his face, Jake turned to the assembled crowd. He muttered something to Sinclair, and then Sinclair and Ridley - a technician under Jake - moved a heavy metal container to parallel the crowd. Then Jake stood on top of it.

"Well, there's good news and bad news," he began with grim humour. "Which would you prefer to hear first?"

"What happened?" someone shouted from the crowd, their voice tight and high in panic.

"From what we can understand," said Jake, nodding toward the other station heads, "there was an explosion in Factory station, near the waypoint corridor at GoSci and the hydroponic farms. There were several smaller explosions that also went off. The nearest was along the corridor between Mecha and Flint, which caused F-deck to blow out. We lost about three tonnes of scrap material but luckily no lives thanks to the quick thinking of the workers there. They sealed the chamber off."

A timid looking man stuttered, "Was it - was it _deliberate_?" he finished with a hush.

Jake frowned. "What makes you think it was?"

He looked around, spotting some scowling faces, but muttered, "Councilwoman Sydney--"

Another man in the crowd hollered, "Shut your face, Haggins!" and the man shrunk into himself.

"I think we're going to need to hear this," rumbled Jake, projecting his voice and letting it roll over the terrified crowd.

The scowling man was suddenly standing alone, and near Sinclair, the red-haired technician Ridley groaned. "I know him. That's Albert Hozenhauer. We get drinks sometimes."

He pushed through the crowd to find the mn - Albert - and hauled him forward with a thick, meaty hand at the back of the wiry dissenter’s neck until he was before Jake. There was a frown on the engineer’s face, and he hopped down from the crate, moving toward the men with Sinclair and a few other Mecha engineers and one or two from Tesla and Flint who were there as Cheng and Koltsova’s representatives.

They began asking Hozenhauer questions and the man remained tight-lipped as well as belligerent until Ridley said something that made the man crack. Then he wouldn’t stop - and Clarke could only watch as her father’s face went from serious, impassive, to horrified in one fell swoop. The others with him were equally disturbed.

With disgust, Ridley shoved the man back to his feet and into the crowd, which he allowed to swallow him until he was far in the back, hidden from curious eyes.

Jake continued to huddle with the others until Sinclair nudged him toward the crate again. Ridley was nodding his head and the representatives from Tesla and Flint - two people Clarke didn’t know - were also nodding, grim looks on their faces.

Jake sighed, a heavy, heaving sound that Clarke could hear from near the front where she sat with Raven, watching her father as he climbed back onto the crate with a weary countenance. When he stood, he said, grimly, “It was deliberate.”

Cries from the crowd were mixed with a hurtle of questions.

Jake held his hands up. “I don’t know more than that. It seems like there was some kind of attempt to separate the Ark or at least seal parts off from one another as leverage. Things just… got out of control.”

“I’ll say!” someone shouted from the crowd, causing people to nervously laugh.

Jake tried to smile. “So. This leads us to the bad news: the bombs were successful enough in that we are no longer attached to the Ark.”

It was like F-deck all over again -- the air seemed to escape the room and people froze in fear.

“B-but -- there are zero-g engineers--” someone began.

“Who, theoretically, yes, could go outside the Ark and try to reel us back in,” agreed Jake with a nod to that person. He sighed. “But um - well. When the bombs went off, they pushed us.”

Blank stares met him.

“ _Away_ from the Ark.”

As the news sank in, Clarke found herself holding her breath even as those around her succumbed to the news, some falling to their feet and others clutching their child tight. They were going to die…

“Which brings us to the good news.”

Clarke lifted her head to look at her father, hope restored.

“We have a dropship,” began Jake, jerking his chin just to his right, at the near back of the large hangar where some engineers and technicians had meandered during his delivery, keen on their work that either he or Sinclair had set them to. They worked feverishly, with determination. Clarke knew that there was a plan in place.

“It can fit about one hundred people in it, and is meant to get to earth,” he further explained, talking louder and over some rumbling voices. “Further: the Ark were several space stations that got to space, to begin with. It is fair to assume that they can get back _down_.”

Raven’s mouth dropped open. “We’re going to _earth_?” her voice squeaked out above the rest.

Jake smiled down at her. “Yes, Raven. We have a choice to die here in space, or to try to make it to Earth.”

“And die there?” scoffed a woman in the crowd.

“Well, do you prefer dying now or maybe dying later?” questioned Jake calmly.

The woman paused and then asked, suspiciously, “Maybe?”

Sinclair moved to stand just below Jake, not getting on the crate but standing before it. He held a datapad in his arms and began speaking just loud enough to be heard. “I’ve been checking the radiation levels; we still have an upload link for about half an hour longer with GoSci. They seem to be stabilized and within safe parameters.”

“As in - _we could survive_?” breathed someone near the front of the group.

“Yes.”

Murmurs broke out amongst the crowd.

Jake held his hands up and they stopped to look at him. “I’ll be honest here, folks. We don’t have much time. The acceleration from the bomb means we’re going to hit the atmosphere in about an hour.”

Terror-filled eyes met Jake’s. 

He continued grimly, “So that means we need everyone to cooperate here. The dropship is within the Ark - I’d prefer to put all the children in there to keep them safe when we land. I’d like people to volunteer to help secure anything loose -- not just here, but go room to room within Mecha, Tesla, Arrow, and Flint stations. I need a headcount of everyone as well, at each station. And we need to do this _quickly_.”

Immediately, people threw their hands in the air, shouting what they’d do. Jake looked stunned for a moment, but then a smile grew, stretching from one corner to the other. Even Sinclair, below him, seemed to be blinking back tears of relief.

“Okay, okay!” called Jake, holding his hands up again. “Let’s get into groups; people interested in securing things, please go speak to Kovac--” the man representing Tesla station waved. “--And those who will volunteer for the headcount should speak to Marie--” the woman representing Flint gave a tiny nod in response. “--Anyone else who has specialties in shutting down mechanics or systems should speak to Sinclair, and I’ll help organize the kids before we get technical with the stations themselves. We have forty minutes to retrofit everything for re-entry.”

With that, Jake hopped off the crate and there was a flurry of movement as people began to spread, moving to one end of the hangar to the other, meeting with people and shuffling children off to friends or to move in groups elsewhere.

Clarke lost sight of her father briefly, swallowed up by the crowd despite his bulky form and height. She held back the panicked cry at the thought of never seeing him again, but Raven was at her side and she was remaining strong (but Clarke didn’t see the way her lips trembled or her hands shook).

“Clarke.”

The blonde looked up, and there he was: her father, standing tall in front of her, with his square jaw tight and firm, blue eyes darting this way and that as he was mentally running through a list of to-dos. 

There was a pale woman with long, straight blackish hair at his side, one hand holding tight to a young girl that was her spitting image. A preteen with curly hair was at her other side -- a family friend Clarke thought, eyeing them both. Behind them was a gaggle of children, some sniffling noisily and running sticky hands across their runny noses as they bit back tears.

“Clarke, this is Aurora Blake,” began Jake, glancing at her. “Her son is one of the oldest children here, so Bellamy is going to be in charge of all of you and getting you on the dropship securely.”

Bellamy - the boy that Clarke didn’t think was related to the woman - nodded, standing straight and solemn.

Jake smiled at her. “Good girl. I’ll see you soon.”

Then, he and Aurora were gone and Bellamy was left staring at her, and her at him. Clarke, unsure of what to do, tentatively stuck her hand out for a shake.

He stared at it, and then her, and then it again before saying, in a no-nonsense voice, “I’m not kissing your hand, Princess.”

Clarke blanched and some of the older kids -- the ones who knew who she was -- giggled and laughed. “No, I was just-- I--”

Raven, loyally at her side, tossed her head back and stared down the boy. “Go float yourself!”

The girl who looked like Aurora widened her eyes, but Clarke figured it wasn’t shock but delight, given her mouth stretched into a beaming smile. “I like them, Bell! I’m going to stick with them.”

Bellamy’s face soured. “O--”

“Don’t mind my brother,” continued the girl, blithely ignoring him as he paled to a sickly white as she spoke. “He’s boring.”

Clarke blinked, just as someone else gasped, “ _brother_ ?” Realizing it was a tricky situation (and now understanding why the girl looked so much like the woman), Clarke thought: _what would dad do?_ and merely nodded, completely ignoring that second children didn’t exist on the Ark. It wasn’t like that would matter soon.

“The dropship my dad was talking about is over there,” said Clarke instead, pointing to the far end of the hangar. Bellamy turned to look. “We should probably go check it out.”

“ _I’m_ in charge here,” the boy argued, but it sounded petulant and he ended up following Clarke’s suggestion anyway, leading the children toward the dropship.

They followed and Clarke was irrationally reminded of little ducklings following their mother -- an image she found in a nature textbook once -- or, alternatively, of the Pied Piper leading the children away from their village. One was a much better scenario than the other.

Ridley, the red-haired technician working for her father, was at the dropship with several other mechanics. He stood from his crouch and turned off his blowtorch as they arrived, sweeping his eyes across the kids; they softened when he spotted his own in the crowd.

“Alright, we’re finished with checking everything over and the dropship is safe for re-entry,” he announced loudly. “Who’s in charge of you pipsqueaks?”

“I am,” said Bellamy, stepping forward -- although he hardly needed to, as he was the tallest of the group by far.

Ridley sized him up, nodding once to himself with a tiny hum. “Alright. This here is the Exodus ship. It was meant to take people back to Earth - eventually, all like - but I guess you lot are going to be safest here. There’re seats for you to sit in. Make sure you strap them up.”

Bellamy nodded and began ushering the kids in, some still sniffling and rubbing their faces with their sleeves to hide tears.

The interior of the ship was dark, with only low-powered lights lining the ring above them, etched into the ceiling. The bucket seats were red with black straps and cold metal buckles. Clarke chose one of the nearest seats, putting her sketchbook down first and then sitting on it. Raven climbed into hers on her left and O -- Clarke frowned. _What’s her name?_ \-- into the one on her right.

Clarke’s hands fumbled with the buckle, the metal shaking as she tried to loop the nylon over her and then tighten it.

“Let me,” muttered Bellamy, the boy reaching forward and quickly buckling her in. His sister sat, already done in her seat, kicking her legs out a bit.

Clarke swallowed. “Thanks,” she whispered.

Bellamy paused as the buckle snapped in place, glancing up at her. His own brown eyes were blown wide with terror, and his freckles stood out in stark relief against his skin despite his olive tone. He too swallowed and whispered back, “No problem.”

Raven had clicked her buckle in place without issue and was looking around the interior, eyeing bits and pieces with a keen gaze. “This seems pretty secure,” she finally declared.

“That’s good,” replied Clarke, trying to keep her voice even. _What would dad do? Dad would be brave. He’d help people._ She took a few deep breaths.

Slowly, the dropship filled, Bellamy leading children to their seats and then a few adults to the second floor of the ship. He left the seat next to his sister free for himself, and Clarke took it upon herself to turn to the other girl and say, “I’m Clarke. What’s your name?”

“I know,” the girl said boldly. “I heard your dad say it. I’m Octavia.”

There were so many questions that Clarke wanted to ask about being a secret second child but didn’t. Instead, she queried, “How old are you?”

“Seven,” replied Octavia, a bit bored. She kicked her legs a bit harder and the heels banged against the metal below the bucket seat. “Bell’s thirteen.” She paused and then asked, “What are you sitting on?”

“My sketchbook,” replied Clarke, and with Raven’s awkward help, they managed to pull it out from under Clarke. Clarke held it out to Octavia to look at, flipping through her pages and then Raven piped up when they got to their shared sketches.

Octavia exclaimed over the sketch of the raven, with Raven herself proudly adding, “That’s my namesake!”

It passed the time until Bellamy returned. His face was paler and he immediately buckled himself in his seat.

“What’s wrong?” Octavia asked, and all three girls fell silent.

“It’s time,” was all he said.

* * *

There was no time left for the adults doing headcounts or securing items, as the station began to rumble and heat up. Sinclair and Ridley organized those who would remain in the station, tightly ensconced in the small, interior storage rooms that lined the hangar bay, while a few others finished cranking the thick nylon that bound several loose crates together and against a wall.

Jake swiftly kissed Clarke's forehead - a hard, tight press of his lips there in almost benefaction - and his eyes were on hers, flicking then over her face like he was memorizing her.

"It'll be over soon, Clarke," he said, quietly, just as Aurora Blake stood after hugging and kissing Octavia. "Look for me outside the dropship when we land. I'll be there. I love you, kiddo."

"Love you too," mumbled Clarke in reply through bloodless lips, eyes wide as she watched her father back away and then down the dropship ladder to the first level.

Moments later there were loud clangs and the magnets holding the ship in place locked the dropship tightly to the floor. The ship began to rumble as much as the station had when they were loading up.

"I am not afraid," lowly Octavia muttered. Bellamy sat on her other side, eyes intent and watching her with laser-like focus. His sister's eyes were shut, and she was whispering feverishly enough that the words escaped her like a prayer. " _I am not afraid. I am NOT afraid…_ "

Then there was a swooping sensation, loud echoes, and bangs around them.

The lights in the dropship flickered - just like the station did when the bombs went off - and someone screamed, a baby somewhere cried - and Clarke squeezed her eyes shut and clutched Raven's hand tightly in one and Octavia's in the other, thinking, wishing, praying _let dad be okay - let him be safe with the others --_

And then they hit the ground.

* * *

{TBC}


	2. Earth

Oceans Rise, Empires Fall (we have seen each other through it all)

Kneazle / writing-as-tracey

* * *

**EARTH:**

DAY ONE

It was March, and there was snow on the ground. Clarke had never seen snow, but she knew about it, academically. 

The reality was much, much different.

It was cold. Blistering cold, at times, when the wind howled down across the flat plains, running up and over stumps of old buildings and frames, slamming into the side of Mecha station where it lay flat with only the smallest part hanging over onto ice from a frozen river.

But the snow was  _ magical _ , light and soft, fluttering and landing and sticking on everything when gathered up and tossed at someone. The children around her shrieked while the adults meandered around, making notes of what was damaged and what wasn't.

On the other side of the river, people from Tesla station, along with fragments of Arrow station -- scattered much further back and across a deep gouge that it made when it hit the ground -- were doing the same. 

Someone, most likely Sinclair, had set up a large lamp and used a piece of metal to block and unblock the light; "We're sending a morse code message across to Cheng, so he knows what we're doing," explained Jake to a curious Clarke, Raven, and Octavia. Bellamy stood close enough, still taking Aurora's instruction of "watch the children; they're your responsibility" seriously.

Tesla Station and parts of Arrow Station had power; Mecha and Flint did not. But Mecha and Flint had the boiler rooms, the laundry, and the forges and 3D printers -- enough to keep them warm in the freezing cold and making items to keep them safe -- while Tesla and Arrow did not. The four stations, split two and two, were separated by the wide, rushing river despite the ice build-up.

They both had power in some manner, as well as shelter, but food was necessary. Snow could be melted, purified in the boilers, for drinking water but--

"What do you think?" muttered Sinclair to Jake, eyes squinting across the water and against the white snow. 

_ How did I end up making decisions? _ wondered Jake, but he said, "It's best if we see if there are any rations that survived the fall first. Then, once we bundle up a bit more, we can fan out and see what's around. Settlements, other people, food."

Sinclair pursed his lips. "People? You think others survived?"

"We did, didn't we?" replied Jake grimly. "And it's been over a hundred years. Plants survived--" he nodded down at a nearby bushed, crushed underneath the station. Somehow, a few of its flowers remained, bright against the green stems and leaves and white snow. "--so why couldn't people?"

"Then I'll find Byrne. She's one of the few senior guards who were nearby when this all went down. She'll have a gun and can organize a rotating watch," sighed Sinclair. “At least we’ve got most of the armory and guards… if we could get the 3D printers up and running again…”

Jake sighed.

Eventually, they had a headcount: 59 died on impact with the ground. There were 31 children prisoners in the Skybox, which Jake immediately asked someone to release and send to a triage spot for a checkup.

As for Arrow Station, there were just under 400 guards of some degree of seniority or position; Major Theresa Byrne was the highest-ranking, with a handful of others she could rely on to maintain security. Eddison Cheng came back with numbers for Tesla Station at 71; Nikola in Flint coordinated with Sinclair to combine Flint and Mecha Stations to numbers of 284.

Outside of the workforce, there were 87 civilians who were in the wrong place when the bomb went off, and 271 children under the age of eighteen, including Bellamy, Octavia, Raven, and Clarke.

The numbers were staggering; almost half of the Ark’s population was on Earth.

And somehow Jake was in charge of it all. _How the hell did that happen?_ he marvelled, running a hand through his dirty hair.

* * *

DAY TWO

Those they could gather on their side of the river huddled in a strange, large blob just outside of the blown hangar doors. Jake once again stood on top of a crate and faced the crowd.

“If we’re going to survive, we’re going to have to work together,” he began, his voice carrying loudly across the snow-covered landscape, reaching even the furthest back. “We’ve got shelter, but until we get a make-shift algae farm up and running, food and water need to be a priority.” 

When no one said anything, he continued: “I propose that we split into groups. Have the guards also scout, looking for food. We have fresh water found in the snow, which some of our Flint Station technicians can help boil and filter. The rest should probably check for any cracks in the hull, and go about fixing them--”

“Who died and put you in charge?”

The voice sprang up somewhere from the middle, bitter and loud. The crowd moved away to reveal a middle-aged man, worn and weary-looking, but with enough frustration and anger lining his face that he continued: “We’re on  _ earth _ ! This isn’t the Ark! I don’t need to take orders from some bastard from Alpha Station! You’re not better than me! Than  _ us _ !”

Jake eyed the man contemplatively, and then nodded, hopping down off the crate. He walked toward him, the crowd letting him move through without any problems until he was a few feet away. The other man looked a bit caged, but squared his shoulders and threw them back defiantly. 

“You’re right,” said Jake, finally, in a pleasant tone much to the surprise of everyone around him. “I’m no better than you or anything else here. What do you think we should do?”

Put on the spot, the man’s eyes darted around the crowd. Some turned their eyes to him, hopefully, wide and desperately in need of someone to tell them what to do. Others hid their smiles behind their hands or turned their backs.

“I -- I --” the man sputtered and then stuttered out, “We -- we should, uh, we should have some people check for cracks in the hull -- and uh -- uh -- look for food--”

Major Byrne snorted, loudly and derisively. “So, exactly what Griffin was suggesting to us, to begin with. Good to know.” 

She had followed him through the crowd, at his back, and curious at how he would handle the shouting man and was pleased with the result.  _ We don’t have time for idiots like him _ , she thought, eyeing the suddenly cowed man, who melted back into the crowd.

“What are your orders, sir?” she asked instead, turning to Jake fully, standing at attention. The guards that were with her (Lieutenant Costa, Sargeants Richards, and Scott, as well as the cadet that had been shadowing her, Taggart) all instantly stood to attention as well, facing the blond man.

With the guard suddenly supporting Jake completely, the others in the crowd turned their attention to him as well. 

“Okay,” began Jake. “Okay.”

And then he began.

* * *

DAY TEN

Scouts -made up of guard members plus some volunteers - found shelter a few days later, barely twenty miles away. They reported following the winding river, along its edge and steep banks that sometimes revealed sheer cliffs into the icy depths, until they reached signs of the previous, pre-nuclear apocalypse civilization.

"It's a tourist town," revealed Byrne, from the safety of the station, once the group returned to the station, stomping their snow-covered boots free in the corridor closest to the exit. She had taken ten other volunteers and a good chunk of whatever rations they could find. "There are leftover shells of cars, and buildings and some are so tightly packed together that they survived."

"Where did we land, then?" asked a curious Jake.

Byrne's eyes were wide, handing over a strangely shiny pamphlet of some kind. "One of the wonders of the world: Niagara Falls."

* * *

DAY TWELVE

“I still don’t know why you decided to back me,” said Jake to Byrne one evening, as he stood with her and a few other guards and some Mecha technicians outside of the remnants of their Station, warming his hands on their makeshift bonfire.

Byrne glanced at him with a tiny smirk on her face. “What did you end up doing today, sir?”

Jake frowned and thought back. “Well, I helped rip sheet metal from the Flint station, and we moved much of it out here to get that outdoor boiler working -- and then I went on the afternoon scout with you, Major, you know that -- and after I read the younger children to sleep to give Perkins a break--”

“Exactly, sir.”

Jake’s frown deepened. “What?”

“You led by example, right in the thick of it. I couldn’t imagine some of the other Council members or those from Alpha Station doing the same.”

“Huh.”

“Also,” continued Byrne, “You were a voice of calm and reason. It’s easy to believe and trust in someone who believes and trusts in  _ you _ .”

* * *

DAY TWENTY-FIVE

It was April and there was  _ still _ snow on the ground, but the wind wasn't howling down from the north anymore. Small blessings, Jake supposed, but it was enough as the temperature began to slowly rise with strange dips here and there of freezing nights.

A makeshift bridge spanned the narrowest part of the Niagara River, and Eddison had begun to slowly move over things from Tesla station to investigate the power station that Sergeant Scott’s team found and see if he could get it working again. The old power station, built thick with heavy stone and rock into the bank of the river ahead of the Falls, just needed some “tender loving care,” chortled Cheng.

And -- somehow, through Ark ingenuity or plain damn luck -- when, late that evening, there was a loud bang and then gentle hum that cut through the quiet of the evening, Jake felt a smile on his lips. 

The power grid turned on. They had light, heat. 

When artificial lights began to glow from the power station, the smile was a beam.

* * *

DAY THIRTY-ONE

The radio to the Ark didn’t work.

They couldn’t contact anyone -- and they didn’t know if they were all that survived.

“I’ll keep trying,” promised Sinclair, eyes wide and fervent. 

_ He has a wife, _ thought Jake, suddenly reminded, something clenching his heart tightly.  _ God, Abby - is she safe? Is Theolonius? _

Jake’s closed instead. “Please,” was all he said.

* * *

DAY FIFTY-SEVEN

With the warmer weather of May, frost no longer appeared during the evening to freeze the ground. It seemed that there was always going to be some kind of chill in the air with the weather change due to the nuclear fallout. 

Teams were sent out to tear down any houses that remained as empty shells, with rotted wood and crumbled brick, so that the material could be hauled back to Flint and repurposed once it was either melted down or cut to neat sizes.

Taggart, the cadet under Byrne’s corp, was the first one to find the bodies - skeletons really - left behind and buried underneath the rubble. His team ended up gently removing them from the ruins, bundling them together into a tarp and taking them back to a patch of land that Jake once thought was a car park.

The family from that house would be the first they found and buried elsewhere in respect, but they wouldn’t be the last.

* * *

DAY SEVENTY-EIGHT

They got the 3D printers working, creating thick coils of steel rope in the first days of June. No one was trained enough, but with the discovery of the cable car, ideas were beginning to take shape. 

It would take time, but the idea of spreading themselves - not everyone wanted to live in a hotel - and the ground that they could cover between the stations, the falls, and the better soil near the lake, meant that they needed something better than their feet, especially in the winter.

Having a type of train, something that could quickly move them from place to place or carry items… well. They hadn’t found any horses yet, had they?

* * *

DAY NINETY-FIVE

They found the butterfly conservatory, its glass dome partially caved in from the elements. No butterflies remained, and the inside was mostly weed, but several glass panels were intact. With a growing collection, and a discussion between Eddison, Nikola, and Sinclair, they thought they would have enough for a greenhouse  _ and _ to replace the windows on the most secure of the hotels that remained, the Crowne. 

The hope was the move out of the cold, sterile Ark stations and into one of the hotels. With a few more career options, several of the civilians that worked elsewhere on the Ark other than the four stations that fell to earth took up architecture and design, with Clarke graciously giving up her sketchbook for them to use.

The glass panels from the conservatory would serve as a greenhouse attached behind the remnants of the hotel, taking over space that was one a restaurant or something similar as plans continued to tear down, and rebuild, the area continued.

Their algae farm took well to the greenhouse, as did some of the few seedlings and fruit and vegetables they had managed to scrounge up.

That was when they knew: they could do more than survive on earth; they could  _ live _ .

* * *

DAY ONE-HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN

The radio still didn’t work, only giving off white noise.

Sinclair kept trying.

* * *

DAY ONE-HUNDRED THIRTY-SIX

The summer equinox had long since passed, and the weather was starting to turn again, despite it being July. There were more thunderstorms, and even after a bout of them, there was frost on the ground when they woke up.

It was a sign that everyone needed to continue to work if they wanted to survive the winter, their first on Earth without being stuck eating algae (which was still grown on the Ark stations, as a precaution in addition to the greenhouse) or living within the retrofitted spaces made available in Arrow and Flint Stations.

More people were pulled off projects, like the cable car, to find meat and vegetables or into repair. Jake, himself, took up dawn to dusk shifts at the hotel, helping tear down walls or putting them up, stuffing the walls with a packing sawdust mix that Flint station engineers created for insulation. 

His hands bled and he was sore, but if it meant that they could be relatively safe within the walls of a building that withstood nuclear war and the ash that followed it, then he would do anything.

* * *

DAY ONE- HUNDRED FORTY-SEVEN

The radio still didn’t work.

Sinclair didn’t try as hard, often being pulled to other projects. So, Raven took a try at it, on the urging of a few others, and Sinclair’s blessing.

* * *

DAY ONE-HUNDRED SEVENTY

They found horses.

And a cow, of some type, but Aurora was fairly certain it was radioactive when Octavia told her its milk glowed at night.

* * *

DAY ONE-HUNDRED EIGHTY-TWO

Arrow Station had been stripped to its entirety, and would continue to be stripped as flurries seemed to be the September norm, to indicate that winter was coming. In the meantime, the parts were removed and brought to the Falls, almost twenty miles downstream and across the river from where the station landed. 

Construction and repair was nearly complete on the Crowne hotel, using the hardy metal that once made up Arrow station to bolster the support beams and struts of the decaying building. 

The removal of the internal guts of Arrow station, plus the extra supplies and haul that the guards brought ensured that there were enough beds and furniture. Sometimes, when the guards were out, they’d find perfectly intact homes and bring everything from the kitchen sink, to the toilet, to the beds and dressers back to furnish their new homes. Sometimes the furniture was scorched metal, other times it was perfect plastic. Rarely it was wood, but each piece was treasured.

It would soon be time for them to relocate to the hotel, permanently.

* * *

DAY TWO HUNDRED AND FIVE

They stopped trying with the radio.

* * *

And then, somehow, suddenly -- it was two years later and they were thriving.

_ Although _ , thought Clarke with a tiny pout, sometimes the same as being back on the Ark in all the ways that didn’t matter to everyone else, but in all the ways that mattered to  _ her _ .

She might not be in Alpha Station, but that didn’t stop those on the ground calling her “Princess.” And despite trying to get them to stop (which included kicking Bellamy in the shins for starting the stupid nickname, to begin with, and then  _ not stop using it _ \--!), nothing worked. So she remained “Princess” sarcastically, ironically, or even affectionately, depending on the mood of the person when they spoke to her.

It didn’t help that her father was all but in charge of everyone as well, especially when Byrne came back with that stupid gryffon statue (how they managed it, Clarke still had no idea, but Byrne and Ridley had looked so pleased with themselves that Jake never questioned the hows and wheres). Now it stood at the doors to the hotel-turned-home fortress, and all but cemented Jake Griffin’s status as their leader.

But the endless politics and decisions that her father made, and those he trusted made, didn’t concern her. Clarke was eleven, it was her birthday; they were in a brief respite from winter with an October thaw that had the snow melting, leaving only a tinge of white frost on the grass. 

Octavia, after presenting Clarke with a plastic and fake rhinestone crown with stars across the band, declared hide and seek for those at Clarke’s birthday celebration (which was a good amount of their age mates and classmates). But the last time Clarke had been the second-to-first out after Finn Collins at Jade Takashiyo’s birthday, and she wasn’t going to let that happen again! 

After crowing about the game and tagging a scowling Bellamy as “it,” Octavia disappeared into the thick crowd that made up the ground-based ARKers. 

Raven took one look at her, made a face and muttered, “sorry, Princess, you’re on your own,” and then darted away quickly, laughing. Other children screamed and took off, leaving Clarke one of the last as she froze, overthinking where to go. 

Bellamy, now fifteen and almost done with school and ready to enter the guards as a cadet, gave her a sympathetic look. He kindly said, “I’ll count to one-hundred if that helps.”

It did, and Clarke  _ ran _ .

Later, Clarke scowled against the stupid plastic crown, yanking her head back from the branches of the tree only for everything to tangle between the leaves, her hair, and the crown. The girl reached her hands up and yanked, her eyes stinging at the pain.

With a bit more patience, she began to untangle her hair, resigning herself to being found during their game of hide-n'-seek - but hopefully not  _ first _ or even  _ second _ . 

She was further away from her usual haunts -- Bellamy won’t be able to find her now,  _ ha _ ! -- well past the conservatory and dropship, and closer to the mouth of the lake and the hydro plant. She’d have time to untangle herself, look presentable and properly “princess-like” if only to annoy the teenager when he eventually found her.

Eventually, she freed herself from the tree and began humming, picking her way through the plants that survived the first frost, looking for wild kale. They had a surplus growing in the hydroponic farm in the greenhouse, but also in the cave, but Clarke didn’t care. The fact that things survived after the nuclear fallout was enough for her.

With her eyes kept on the ground, keenly looking for the leafy green, she was unprepared to bump into another person.

“Oh, sorry--” her eyes darted up - and up - until they reached equally shocked, wide storm grey eyes. 

Clarke had never seen him before. That was enough for her to be shocked into freezing in fear because, despite a thousand survivors from the Ark’s fall to Earth, they had not met anyone else on the ground.

He was tall -- almost as tall as Lieutenant Taggart who was twenty and a member of the guard -- but this young man had brown hair that hit past his shoulders, braided back with bits of bead and bone in them. He was dirty, smeared with blood and gunk on his high cheeks and neck. He was also very lean, despite being covered in the strangest collection of clothes Clarke had ever seen: layers of furs and leather and some kind of linen or cotton.

For a moment, they both stared at each other. Then, he took a small step forward, quickly listing to his side. The young man was bleeding heavily from his side, with numerous other scratches and marks all over, but none as bad as the wound freely bleeding where his hand pressed against his hip.

He tripped over his feet and Clarke rushed forward, slamming her small body against his as he sank to his knees. 

She huffed as his weight fell into her.  _ What am I supposed to do now? _

“Clarke!” a distant voice called. “C’mon, Clarke! Where are you? This isn’t fun anymore!”

“Here! Here, Bellamy!” she turned her head away from the young man and  _ screamed _ . “Here! Come here and help me!”

Bellamy crashed through leaves and bush at her cries, a leaf stuck in his curls and his eyes frantic as they skimmed over her -- just barely standing while someone new and strange and  _ not one of them _ \-- bled all over her.

“I -- Clarke?” Bellamy’s voice - which had dropped just after they landed - cracked. He fought the urge to throw the man off the girl, but he appeared unconscious and Clarke didn’t seem to be worried or discomforted - just concerned.

“Help me bring him back to the Crowne!”

With a sigh of exasperation -- because if it wasn’t bringing wounded birds, or helping her and Octavia rub poison ivy in Finn’s nightclothes -- Bellamy was always following Clarke’s suggestions. Things weren’t likely to change, even as he wondered (a thought he often had):  _ Why do I listen to Clarke? _

Then, upon seeing the chaos unleashed hours later, after helping Clarke Griffin bring a bleeding, unconscious, stranger to their home, Bellamy was reminded why he was often involved in her plans. She was just plain  _ fun _ .

* * *

{TBC}


	3. The Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While there is quite a lot of Jake in this story atm, Clarke's time will shine.

Oceans Rise, Empires Fall (we have seen each other through it all)

Kneazle / writing-as-tracey

* * *

**THE STRANGER:**

The significant decrease of pain was the first thing Roan noticed when he woke up. 

The second was the incredibly comfortable mattress he was on; it was nothing like his feather-stuffed bed in the castle, a pile of damp furs from when he would go on raiding parties, and it certainly wasn’t a bed of leaves and pine cones in the wild. 

He kept his breathing even, recognizing that he could likely be watched. Keeping still, he waited. He was rewarded when he heard a door open, and something -- familiar -- began to hum.

He cracked his eyes open, two tiny, thin slits.

A girl was placing a cup on the table next to his head with extreme care, ensuring it settled quietly. She had something large and rectangular under her arm and held a brightly coloured pouch in her other hand.

Then, she turned to a nearby chair and pulled it toward the bed.

Its legs scuffed across the carpeted floor, and she cringed, stopping immediately. With hesitance, she glanced over her shoulder at him.

Her blue eyes - _like the summer sky,_ thought Roan - met his.

She squeaked. “You’re awake! I’m so sorry, did I wake you up?”

Her words were pitched with enough worry that Roan’s brain struggled to understand what she was saying. It certainly wasn’t Trigedasleng, nor Azgedasleng, but rather the language of _before_ \-- English. Gonasleng.

Roan blinked. 

“Did you want something to drink? I’ve brought water,” the girl continued, pointing at the cup.

When he said nothing, she just nodded. There was something old and understanding in her eyes, like she knew exactly who he was and what he was thinking. 

The girl sat in the chair by his side and picked up the rectangular package -- Roan’s head craned the tiniest bit forward to see what she was doing. _Oh_ , he thought. _She was -- sketching._

While she was distracted, Roan looked around the room. On either side of his bed were small tables, well designed and put together; heavy curtains hung closed, keeping the room filled with strange, artificial light, and opposite his bed--

His heart leaped into his throat and he did his best not to move. A quick glance at the girl, her blonde hair bowed over her sketches, ensured she didn’t notice the hitch in his breath. His clothes were folded neatly and lay on top of the chest with drawers, and, propped next to it upright, was his sword.

His sword -- while not within his reach -- was available and displayed for all who entered. Either his rescuers had no idea who he was, or they didn’t consider him a threat. Roan wasn’t sure if he was insulted or relieved. 

The door to his room opened on soundless hinges, but rasped against the carpet. The man who entered was tall, burly with wide shoulders. He had short, light brown, bordering on blond, hair slightly streaked with grey, indicating his age. A few pieces fell across his forehead, giving him a rakish look. There were lines on his face by his eyes and forehead. The man’s mouth was a tight line across his face, partially hidden by a thick scruff that balanced between a fine line to that and a trimmed beard. And -- his eyes were as blue as a summer sky. Roan’s eyes darted back to the girl near him.

She turned when he entered, her entire face lighting up. “Dad!”

_Her nontu_ , he thought, recognizing the eyes. The way the man beamed down at the girl as she hugged his middle was also another confirmation.

Behind the man were at least three others; two women and another man. One man and woman were in all black, with weapons and a hardened look to their faces. _Guards,_ deduced Roan as he watched them warily. 

The other woman, with long, straight black hair, moved purposefully into the room and headed for him.

Roan froze as the woman leaned over him. She stopped, pulling back to look at him. “I just want to check your dressing.”

He watched with wary eyes as she pulled the blanket back, carefully, revealing his bare chest, spattered with bruises and cuts, all of which were healing well. Around his stomach wrapped a long, white cloth; parts were a bit red from blood, but when the woman unwrapped it, Roan was surprised to see how well the deep wound in his side had healed.

How long had he been unconscious? Horror stole him. Had the assassin _followed_ him and was now among these people? He cut his eyes to the leader and his guards, narrowing them in thought.

The guards were watching him, but the girl and her father - the leader - were completely engrossed with one another. He was looking at her sketches, smiling proudly and exclaiming over them softly and she was beaming up at him in happiness.

Something in Roan ached. Had his mother ever done so with him? She had always been so cold, even after his victories in the ring as royal champion… when he received his marks… 

He barely remembered his father, but there were times - memories - when he could picture a tall man with a thick beard scratching at his face when he playfully rubbed it against his cheeks; the smell of wood and pine cones and soft furs to snuggle in; and a vague, rumbling voice praising, “well done, Roan!” after he killed his first meat with his bow.

“He’s healing well and my stitches are even,” the woman was speaking, and Roan turned his attention to the black-haired woman as she addressed the group. “He should stay off his feet, but he’ll be fine.”

“Thank you, Aurora,” the leader said, smiling at her. 

She nodded back, walking toward them and pausing only long enough to smile at the girl - who grinned back - before leaving the room. Silence fell on those who remained, as the leader focused his blue eyes on Roan and his guards glanced between him and the girl.

“Sir?” the male cleared their throat. “Should we - uh - should Clarke leave?”

The girl - Roan frowned, _Klark?_ \- swung her head around to face the guard, with a look of complete betrayal on her face that made Roan shift in the bed to hide his laugh. His own _strisis_ would often have that look when she wanted to stay up later than her bedtime, only to be shot down.

“Off you go, kiddo. Guardsman Taggart’s waiting outside for you,” the leader said.

“ _Daaaaad_ ,” whined the girl. Her blue eyes widened and she stared up at him with a pouty lower lip.

Her father raised his eyebrows in response and she sighed, long and heavily, enough so that he exchanged an amused look with his guards.

Roan stared in fascination. Had he ever _dared_ to act that way around his parents - the King and Queen - he would’ve been _flogged_ until unconsciousness. Was this how normal families acted?

Sensing she lost, Clarke let her shoulders drop. She partially turned, catching Roan’s grey eyes and, solemnly with a downturn to her lips, she gave a limp wave goodbye. 

He couldn’t help but let his lips twitch up in a tiny smile.

She left, scuffing her feet into the carpet enough so that her father sighed, and gave her a gentle push out door, which closed behind her.

The girl’s father then turned his blue eyes on Roan, and for a moment, he was tempted to shrivel into himself, to pull his shoulders in. Those blue eyes were electric, seemingly all-seeing, like the man was stripping Roan of all he was. But then the moment passed and Roan reminded himself: _I am a hainofa of Azgeda! This man does not bother me_.

“How are you feeling?” he asked instead, walking forward until he sat in the chair his daughter vacated. His guards remained nearby but neither hovered over the man; clearly, they thought he could take care of himself despite Roan not seeing any weapons on him.

Instead of replying, Roan pursed his lips together and let his eyes drift away, as to indicate that he didn’t understand the man. 

The leader waited a few moments, and then huffed out a tiny laugh. Roan’s eyes darted back to him, eyes widening a bit when he saw that he was leaning forward, elbows on his knees and a small smile on his face.

“I know you can understand me, kid,” the man began. “Because you didn’t protest to Aurora when she said she was checking your bandages. If you really didn’t understand what we were saying, you would’ve reacted much worse.”

_Fuck. Caught,_ thought Roan with a mental groan. 

“So, let’s try that again,” the man continued. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” croaked Roan, his voice dry and hoarse with misuse.

Jake’s mouth twitched. “That wasn’t too hard, was it?”

Roan glowered.

“What’s your name, kid?” asked the man, leaning back in the chair now. 

“What’s yours?” Roan replied petulantly, his voice low as he scowled and looked at his lap and the blanket, picking at it.

“I apologize, I didn’t introduce myself.” The man’s mirth died away. “My name is Jake Griffin.”

Roan frowned, looking at Jake, waiting for him to add his kru. When he didn’t, Roan prompted, “Jake Griffin _kom_ …?”

Jake’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

Roan stared. _He doesn’t_ understand _? How can he not understand which kru he is from -- is he a Frikdreina?_

Roan’s eyes quickly darted all over Jake - but there was nothing wrong with his face, or his hands, which were resting on the chair’s arms; and the rest of him seemed fine from visual inspection, having been able to walk easily into the room.

Instead, Roan prompted again, “Jake Griffin kom… what kru? Podakru? Sangedakru?” His lips turned up in a disgusted curl. “Trikru?”

It was Jake’s turn to stare. “What - I --” He shook his head, blinking as if stunned. “No, I -- we --” He frowned, eyes hard on Roan. “What’s your name?”

Roan swallowed, but replied, “Roan kom Azgeda.”

Jake nodded to himself, muttering, “ _kom Azgeda_ ,” and bringing a hand up to rub at his mouth. His eyes flickered over Roan’s shoulder and Roan’s eyes followed, catching the shrug that the tall blond woman guard made.

“Roan,” began Jake carefully, “what does ‘kom Azgeda’ mean?”

“From the Ice Nation,” translated Roan slowly, eyeing Jake carefully. “How could you not know that? All _kru_ know Trigedaslang.”

Jake’s mouth twitched again, and he sighed. “Sure. Anyone born on the ground does.”

Roan paused, his eyes slanting at Jake as his mind raced with the new knowledge he was given.

Still, the male guard hesitantly cautioned, “Sir - should we--?”

“I don’t think we have much of a choice, Sergeant Scott,” said Jake lowly, eyes still on Roan as he processed. 

“You - you are not from any of the kru,” murmured Roan.

“No,” Jake agreed.

“None of you speak Trigedaslang?” he continued, and then rambled off a few nonsense words, several of them highly derogatory insults, but the three never reacted.

Jake shrugged.

“You said - _from the ground_ ,” he finished with a tiny reverent hush. His grey eyes glanced around the room at the three, at their strange clothes and weapons - nothing like he had ever seen, but heard that the mountain men carried -- his heart leaped and he swallowed. Had he been captured by the _maun-de_?

He began to struggle against his bed sheet, pulling the blanket back with jerky movements. It got caught around his legs and he struggled to extract himself, to swing his legs over.

Jake stood. “Whoa, whoa, kid - Roan --”

But Roan didn’t listen, tripping over his tangled legs and catching himself as he fell to the floor opposite Jake, near the drawn curtains.

His side exploded with pain, and he grit his teeth. His hands reached forward just as Sergeant Scott reached around the bed and near his feet. Roan kicked out, despite his legs still tangled in the sheets, and his hands caught the edge of the curtains, yanking them down as he tried to pull himself up.

Sunlight burst into the room, although it was muted and faded through the dark and heavy fabric of the curtains as they puddled over his face. Roan’s hands and arms were frantic as he pushed aside the fabric, trying to find an opening. He felt someone at his feet, untangling his legs and he lashed out with his heel --

_“YEOW_!”

“Scott!” the woman cried.

“Are you alright?” asked Jake, concern lacing his voice.

“M’fine,” the man replied, although his voice was muffled.

Roan yanked the rest of the fabric over his head and launched to his feet, finally free of the tangled fabric. 

Then, he stopped.

Stared.

He was not in the mountain - the mountain had no windows. That should’ve been a clue to him initially, but he was so sure -- but the view beyond the window and the thin glass ( _how is there glass?_ he wondered) was not of Trikru territory. He was also high in the air, in a building taller than those in Polis, taller than the Azgeda castle he grew up in.

Instead, the view was breathtaking.

A town sprawled outside at the base of the tower, some buildings with floors as tall as five rows of windows; there was a wide, smooth grey road along the cliffs that looked down to the crevice of a lake. Along the road were pop-up sheds or shacks of some kind and many, many people mingling on the road, walking back and forth with bags or without. Some were congregating on the grass of the many gardens opposite the road. Trees with browning leaves gently swayed in a light breeze and as he watched, Roan saw two children climb up one, even as several leaves fell to the ground, creating a circle of auburn, red, and orange. 

Other people were walking purposefully and some had carts with oxen, filled with wares of some kind or tarps to protect their material. Some people were on horses, but those people were dressed like the two guards with Jake, moving slowly through the crowds and often stopping to speak to people who called out to them.

But beyond all that -- where Roan’s eyes continued to linger and be drawn back to -- were the two large waterfalls, one a wider c-shape than the other. The water pouring over them was immense, hitting the rocks that jutted up from the clear blue water with white foam spraying everywhere so much so that there was a fine mist listing up in the air, casting rainbows.

Jake came to stand at his side, a solid, silent presence.

“I… am not in the mountain,” began Roan hesitantly.

Jake’s eyes slanted toward him. “No.”

“Where am I?”

“Niagara Falls,” replied Jake, evenly, quietly. “Have you heard of it?”

Roan slowly shook his head. 

“I can show you a map, later, if you’d like,” continued Jake quietly. “I understand that this must be overwhelming to you.” He paused, but Roan kept his face forward, taking in the sights below and beyond him.

He blinked, mouth dropping open as he saw a strange, boxy cart - although it was far too large for a cart - came down the middle of the street. People got off the road, making a clear path for it. As the large cart slowed, people emerged, stepping off with dainty hops and others took their place, hopping into the cart.

“What -- what is that?” rasped Roan, turning his head to face Jake. His eyes were wide as he pointed.

Jake followed the finger. “That’s our street tram. Uh, like a streetcar? It runs on electricity along a track in the road. See how there are two shiny bits down the middle?” 

Roan nodded.

“That’s the track. At the top of the tram is an antenna, that piece that sticks out. It’s attached to a wire -- see it? That wire runs along the top of the street and connects to electric posts,” the man finished explaining. As he did, Roan’s eyes followed and spotted the rope connecting the tram to poles, arches that the tram passed through, like a tunnel. Every so often, nearer to buildings or where there were overhangs, another rope ran from the arches to the poles.

“Who are you people?” the words slipped from Roan before he could consciously censure himself and he swallowed quickly, hoping to keep anything else quiet.

“We’re…” Jake looked a bit desperate, looking around the room at the two others and then back at Roan as he struggled to articulate his thoughts. “I guess… we’re survivors.”

* * *

“So, who is he?”

Jake looked up from where he was drumming his fingers along the conference table at Eddison, who was reclining comfortably in the office chair, looking directly at Jake intently.

He continued, this time speaking to the rest of those at the table, “I thought we were alone here.”

There were several rooms on the top floor of the building: the large, rectangular “public” meeting room; the conference room they were currently in, and then several smaller offices that the individual people in the room used.

The public meeting room was one that they had fixed and altered from the original design of what the hotel had been, using leftover glass panels from the Butterfly conservatory to create a top-floor glass enclosure that overlooked the Falls. The room usually remained empty and unused unless there were arguments or decisions to be made. People could then watch the discussion for the sake of transparency and add their own thoughts -- but the room was, for all other purposes, an open forum or throne room.

The room they were currently in was near the back of the public room, through a single door with large windows that overlooked the space behind the Crowne: everything to the north-east of Cliff Hill and toward the large lake. Sometimes on clear days, they could see the remnants of other cities and towns from before the war, but they had never travelled in that direction and had no desire to go beyond the remains of Niagara-on-the-Lake. 

The room included a circular table that some enterprising person had made for them, taking up woodworking (and becoming ridiculously in demand), while they all had individual chairs that they preferred. There was no head, and Aurora had laughed when she saw it, bubbling out something along the lines of “Arthur and his Knights” that at the time amused only her.

There were several spots at the table, including empty places for others eventually, but at the moment, it included: Jake, Aurora, Eddison Cheng, Nikola Koltosova, Major Byrne, and Sinclair. The new faces were Ava Jordan, who was in charge of the brewery; Constance Little, who handled education and keeping the large number of children busy; and Malek Turkhel, who managed their food and partnered often with Byrne and Aurora for security and medicinal reasons.

Each had their own office on that floor as well, where they often kept records of what those working for them did, or conducted individual meetings.

“His name is Roan,” began Jake, answering Eddison. “From Azgeda.”

“Azgeda?” echoed Constance, frowning, making the lines on her dark face more prominent. She was the oldest of those at the table. “I’ve never heard of such a place on earth.”

“They likely changed place names after the war,” suggested Byrne. “He said it translated to ‘Ice Nation.’”

“So, likely from around here,” mused Eddison out loud, leaning even further back in his chair as it creaked and took the weight. 

“He was coming from the east,” Byrne continued, “When Clarke found him.”

“Or rather, he found her,” snickered Malek, the youngest at the table, at barely twenty-three. He then sobered. “She’s alright though, yeah?”

Jake nodded. “Terrified Bellamy with her screams for help, but she’s fine. Roan didn’t attack her at all.”

“What does he want?” asked Nikola, her voice as stern as her face as she folded her arms tightly across her chest. “And when can we get rid of him?”

“Nikola,” sighed Jake, just as Aurora added, “He was badly injured. I’m not a doctor -- and goodness knows we don’t have one here -- but it was bad. He was bleeding everywhere from a knife wound.”

“A _knife_?” gasped Constance, a hand to her mouth.

Aurora nodded grimly. “It was deep, cutting from his hip across his stomach. Someone tried to gut him.”

A grim silence descended on the group. 

“So we’re _definitely_ not alone,” muttered Eddison darkly.

“But isn’t he rather young?” asked Ava, speaking for the first time. She rarely spoke at these meetings unless it was to contribute directly related to her work. 

Jake nodded. “I’d say he’s around eighteen or nineteen. An adult by our standards and, apparently, here as well for someone to try to murder him.”

“Is it safe to keep him around then?” asked Ava, somewhat nervously. “If someone wanted to kill him, maybe there was a reason?”

“And maybe there wasn’t,” retorted Byrne sharply. “He hasn’t spoken about it, at all. But I have directed the guard to be on look for anything out of the ordinary - anyone new, any other strangers, any missing clothing.” At the looks the others gave her, she expanded, “In case his assassin comes here and steals some of our clothes to fit in, trying to look like us.”

“Is that likely?” asked Sinclair quietly.

“Entirely,” agreed Jake with a sigh. 

“How long is this Roan staying then?” asked Eddison.

Jake shrugged.

“He needs at least two weeks to heal,” added Aurora. “He can stay in his current room and then we can re-evaluate from there.”

There were nervous looks shared around the room.

Jake steepled his fingers in front of his face, elbows on the table. “I’d hate to say it, given that we don’t know much about him, but there are things that concern me.”

Nikola shot him a look. “Like what?”

“One, he speaks a different language and it’s one we don’t know at all,” began Jake slowly, carefully thinking of what he wanted to say. “Two, when he realized that we only spoke English and that our clothing and furniture was different to whatever he was used to, he tried to escape. He thought we were an enemy of some sort, and nearly pulled his stitches. It was only when he saw the Falls that he stopped.”

Something dark passed over Eddison’s face. “So there are others like us…”

“Or similar enough with tech,” confirmed Byrne, having been in the room at the time and saw the response. “I can only assume that some people from before the war survived.”

Sinclair’s face was confused. “Haven’t they all survived…?”

“ _He_ and his Azgeda people did on the surface,” clarified Byrne, “But I think he thought we were people who survived in a bunker.”

Jake nodded in agreement. “Thelonious mentioned it to me once -- a place called Mount Weather. It held the remains of the United States government, if they made it there.”

Malek was wide-eyed. “You think they survived.”

“Something did,” said Jake, his own blue eyes dark. “And it’s something I don’t want to meet anytime soon, if Roan’s reaction is something to count on. It was… violent, frantic.”

“Anything else?” prompted Nikola after a few moments of terse silence as people digested the news. 

“Yes,” said Jake, nodding. “Against Byrne’s wishes, I had his sword displayed near him. He could have, at any point, reached for it and attacked us. He didn’t.”

“He could be waiting for the best moment,” suggested Eddison.

“So could we,” shrugged Byrne, who already had her argument out with Jake privately. “And we have guns. And stun batons.”

“This just brings us back to the original question: is it safe for him to be here?” asked Eddison with a long sigh.

“I suggest we assign a guard to him and allow him free rein,” said Jake, speaking over the few sputters of protest. “We don’t know how long he’ll want to be here and winter is almost here. It would be cruel to save his life and then send him back out into a snowstorm to die.”

“He might not,” pointed out Nikola, dryly. “If he’s from the _Ice_ Nation.”

There were a few chuckles around the room, Jake’s included.

“True,” the Alpha Station engineer said. “But I propose we use him in the same way he’s likely going to use _us_. We’re just as novel to him as he is to us; we should take this opportunity to learn from him and spoon feed him bits of our culture. We’ll keep the guns and more… destructive abilities we have quiet for as long as we can.”

“What do we decide to show and not?” asked Constance. “And do you think he’d be willing to teach _us_ things, too?”

“Showing him what we’ve accomplished is hardly a problem,” began Sinclair slowly, “As long as we control it. We can let people know -- like, those in the Forge and engineering should be more careful when he’s around. But education, food, the brewery -- we could use that.”

“How?” asked Ava.

“Well…” began Sinclair, looking around the room, “If there are other people here… then we have potential trading partners. More diverse food, seeds; opportunities to learn their language; a potential to learn what happened after the nuclear bombs fell…”

There were quiet murmurs around the table as a few spoke to their neighbours or sat in silent contemplation. Jake allowed it for several minutes before lightly rapping his knuckles on the table and catching their attention.

“So,” he began, “All in favour of allowing Roan to stay?”

Nine hands, including his, went up.

“All in favour of controlling what Roan sees, but for the most part, letting him roam?” Jake chuckled at the unintentional pun, making the others who caught it laugh, too. 

“As long as we can individually tell our workers,” amended Nikola. “I don’t like the idea of someone who has no idea about the Forge coming and going without safety training.”

“And while I doubt he’d know what half our engineers are working on, I won’t want to give things away,” added Sinclair.

Jake nodded. “Amended. All in favour?”

Nine hands went up.

“Well.” Jake sat back in his seat. “I suppose I can now officially welcome Roan to Niagara Falls and we can begin introducing him to the survivors of the Ark.”

* * *

Now that he was awake, and clearly not considered a threat (which Roan was still disgruntled about), he was moved from the initial room to another on a different floor but with the same view. 

Everything was confusing. Jake Griffin remained kind and polite, openly answering Roan’s questions despite Roan not answering any of his. He ensured that he had fresh food and drink brought to his new room, showing him how to use the “light switches”, as they did not use candles, and they both fought through their embarrassment with the toilet.

Roan was not locked in. That was made clear - the lock was on the _inside_ , and he could lock _them_ out and himself in if he so wished; his sword and clothing was returned to him, and all that was asked of him were two things: the first, to continue to rest for a few more days and allow Aurora Blake to look over her stitch work on his wound and second, that if he were to leave his room, to find one of the guards on the floor and ask for them as an escort so did not get lost.

It was baffling. Utterly illogical. He was a _prince_. He was the perfect ransom piece against his nation and mother, and yet not one person thought to ask anything further of him!

In fact, no one seemed to care who he was. Roan could leave his room whenever he wanted; he could go to the ground floor of the strange, tall building that everyone referred to as “the Crowne” -- so, clearly, that meant Jake was a King, for the little that he acted like it --, and enter the Great Hall (but they called it a “restaurant” that served food as a “buffet”) and eat whatever he’d like. 

There was a brewery nearby, making all kinds of ale that he’d never tasted before (and wanted to continue tasting, but that was the only time Jake ever pulled him away from somewhere, laughing); and no one stopped him from walking up Cliff Hill, peering into stores (they had _stores_! With goods inside that people could barter other things for!), or stopping at stalls to look at merchandise, or even from wandering toward the forges - a large, rectangular building near the edge of the town that burned day and night with fires that constantly bled orange on the horizon.

(Roan did his best to completely forget the day that he rode the streetcar up and down Cliff Hill, and from one end of their territory to the other, in awe of the smooth, quick easy ride that put the best horse to shame. At first, the guard with him was amused, but by the fourth hour and twentieth circuit, that amusement had turned into sour annoyance.)

Children laughed and ran around him; men and women alike met his eyes and smiled, or nodded politely; even the guards would look at him, and then their eyes would slide past and continue with what they were doing.

No one stared at his scars. No one spat at him or sneered insults under their breath about Azgeda. No one cared about his longer hair, or his clothes that were so different to what these people wore. No one even bothered him about his sword, which he took to wearing again across his back in its sheath.

Roan felt discombobulated. What kind of ruler was Jake Griffin that there was so much peace and prosperity among his kru that no one was bothered by a stranger? What kind of kingdom did Jake Griffin run? What kind of man was Jake Griffin? 

And then Roan officially met Clarke.

* * *

{TBC}


	4. The Shields

Oceans Rise, Empires Fall (we have seen each other through it all)

Kneazle / writing-as-tracey

* * *

THE SHIELDS

Roan could’ve left Niagara Falls within two weeks of healing from his wound. Jake would’ve helped him find a horse, given him provisions, and happily sent him on his way back to Azgeda and he’d be home with his siblings in just over a weeks’ time, as long as the weather held and the first snow from the North didn’t materialize.

But he didn’t -- for several reasons: the assassin who tried to kill the Azgeda heir was still alive and Roan was sure that they’d try it again. Furthermore, he was curious about Jake’s people, and even more, they were welcoming. It had been a long time since he felt that way somewhere.

Every so often, Jake would periodically meet with Roan and ask him questions about himself, Azgeda, or life on earth. Roan rarely answered, unsure of what he should say or what Jake would use the information for -- despite remaining in Niagara Falls for the past month, Roan wasn’t entirely convinced that Jake Griffin wasn’t some sort of master planner.

It just so happened that  _ that _ particular day, Roan decided to visit the marketplace. While there were stores on Cliff Hill, they were mostly heavy items that the guards would find on searches and haul back or finicky items that were too delicate to move and often were produced in house, at the back of the shop. The marketplace was meant for everything that people could barter or trade away quickly due to pure necessity.

The location of the marketplace wasn’t on Cliff Hill, but rather right near the largest of the two waterfalls, down the road from the Crown. He wasn’t sure what the original building was used for, but it was a large, circular building that overlooked the Falls and was completely enclosed. 

As it was chilly, but a rare, snow-free November day, Roan enjoyed the slow walk he took with his guard several paces behind him, giving the illusion of privacy. It also just so happened that he was passing one of the original buildings, before Praimfaya, which Jake’s people were fixing. They had completed the outside and were, that winter, working on the interior. But that day, Jake and several others were outside, working on makeshift tiers, hacking with axes or running cables -- and their king was in the middle of it, his face smeared with dirt and dust.

The man caught sight of Roan and said something to those with him. The people around him laughed and good-naturedly waved goodbye as Jake peeled away from the group, hands in his jacket pockets as he strolled leisurely toward Roan. 

When he was within hearing distance, the young man asked, “Do you often work alongside your people?”

Jake grinned. “Yeah. Keeps me busy and humble.”

Roan stared impassively at him. 

“And,” the man continued, a bit more honestly, “I prefer leading by example. I won’t ask these people to do anything I wouldn’t do, either.”

_ Interesting, _ thought Roan, as his respect for Jake continued to climb,  _ and commendable. The most respected leaders were those who fought side-by-side with their warriors, in unity and brotherhood. _

“You must be a skilled warrior then given how loyal your guard is,” commented Roan idly, glancing at the taller man from the corner of his cat-like eyes.

Jake snorted. “I don’t particularly care for weapons.” He then paused, and changed the subject: “Where are you headed?”

“To the Market,” explained Roan, allowing the change. “I was thinking I could barter something of mine for my siblings.”

“Oh?” asked Jake, and together the two began walking in the direction of the Falls, with Roan’s guard following behind them at a respectful distance.

Roan nodded. “Myrabel - my sister who would be of an age to your daughter I believe; and Dorion, my brother. He’s the middle child.”

Jake was silent for a bit as they moved through the crowds, a slow-going process as many people stopped to speak to Jake. Eventually, as they neared the rotunda that served as their market, Jake quietly asked, “Do you miss them?”

“Every day,” replied Roan, just as quietly.

When they stepped inside, blissfully warm and out of the chilled winter air, they were met with chaos.

Jake blinked in shock at the absolute mess that was the market: stalls were overturned, bits and pieces of cloth and scrap littered the floors, and people were screaming, red-faced against one another in angry accusations. There were splashes of colour -- thick paint -- over several stalls with some miserable people trying to mop it up. But there were also a few other interesting pieces scattered around the mess: long metal rods, rigs, and rope...

Several guards were surrounding a smaller group, with a weary Lieutenant Johnson trying to get people to stop talking over each other so he could get to the bottom of the issue. And in the middle of it, his daughter stood fierce, her blue eyes staring down a much older man -- Jake actually groaned out loud when he realized it was the same man who once challenged him when they first landed on the earth, years ago now -- who was shouting something about “menaces,” “destruction of property,” and “no better than any of them.”

As the three men moved closer - especially as those around them took notice of Jake and the guard - people began to quiet.

“What’s going on here?” asked Jake, his voice low and even and cutting through all the remaining noise.

Johnson turned toward him, relief on his face. “Sir.”

The screaming man turned as well, recognizing Jake with a dark look but he still puffed himself up and pointed a jabbing finger at Clarke. “Her! Your daughter!”

Jake did not look at Clarke. “What about her?”

“She - she - and those - those  _ brats _ \--!” clearly enraged and unable to speak, the man stuttered off half-formed sentences and thoughts.

Roan, doing his best to fade into the crowd, watched as Jake turned his blue eyes toward the girl that had sat at his bedside when he woke, who brought him a drink, and who -- the memory suddenly coming back to him as she glanced familiar blue eyes at him -- was the one who brought him to safety in Niagara Falls.

Behind the girl stood several others; two were covered in the remains of paint (the one with the goggles, and the young teen boy with floppy brown hair); a girl with a long ponytail scowled fiercely at the man with something metallic in her hands, her other hand clutched tightly with Clarke’s, while another girl with long black hair had positioned herself nearly in front of them all, eager to lunge at the man while the eldest of the group. She had a fresh bruise on her temple and a teenager with curly hair, had a tight grip on the back of her shirt, reining her in despite the very dark look in his eyes.

“Clarke,” began Jake, as his eyes dipped on each of the children, naming them. “Jasper, Finn. Raven. And Octavia, Bellamy. Who is going to explain what happened here?”

His eyes flickered over Clarke’s steel-like spine, the miserable expressions on Jasper and Finn’s faces, and even the way that the Blake siblings were positioned. Raven’s deadly stare added to the hostile environment, and Jake already had a good idea of what went on.

The children were silent for a long moment, and then the youngest girl, Octavia bared her teeth, ready to speak, but Clarke stepped forward and to the side, blocking her from view. “It was a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding!” sputtered the man.

“In a moment, Dawes, you’ll be able to speak your say,” said Jake, a hint of something in his voice that echoed throughout the now-silent marketplace as everyone watched.

“Sir,” began the guard, Johnson, “My men and I arrived at the tail-end of the fight. The children were trying to pull Dawes off Ms. Blake.”

“She bit me!” shrieked Dawes, thrusting his hand out at Jake, where there was a prominent line of tooth marks against his pale skin. “That little heathen bit me! Who knows where her mouth has been, given her mother--”

Bellamy immediately stepped forward but Johnson reached forward and hauled the teenager back forcefully just as Jake’s voice dripped like ice: “One more word, Dawes. Just one.”

Roan inhaled sharply and held his breath.  _ This _ was a leader.

“Clarke,” began Jake, eyeing his daughter, “Do I need to ask again? Or should I guess, hmm? Because what I’m seeing here is a rig, Raven’s handiwork no doubt, and a bunch of paint-filled balloons.”

Immediately, guilty looks appeared on the younger of the children’s faces.

“So my next question is whether Mr. Dawes was a deliberate target or not?”

It seemed like Jasper or Finn would break first, both of them fidgeting, while the other four seemed to be having some sort of silent conversation that involved sharp gestures, scowls, and wiggling eyebrows. 

They seemed to have come to some sort of agreement, because Clarke turned back and said, again, “It was a misunderstanding.” She turned her blue eyes to the still red-faced Dawes and said, rather insincerely, but earnestly, “We’re very sorry Mr. Dawes.”

“Yeah,” echoed Octavia, although the sneer in her voice didn’t help. “Sorry.”

Finn and Jasper echoed the apology - far more sincere in their tones - while Raven and Bellamy kept silent.

Jake sighed. “Lieutenant Johnson, please escort Finn and Jasper home. I’ll take the other four with me.”

“That’s it?! That’s  _ it _ ?!” shouted Dawes. “My  _ work _ , my  _ stall _ is destroyed! Those brats ruined my merchandise! How am I supposed to trade it now?”

“They’ll be back tomorrow to clean everything up under your supervision,” replied Jake evenly, “to make up for what they damaged; including any others that were damaged. They will also be grounded from seeing each other for the next week to dissuade them from any more pranks.”

Dawes’ mouth turned down into a heavy scowl. “They’re getting away with--”

“With nothing,” finished Jake, his voice firm. “They’re  _ children _ . What would you have me do to punish them instead? Float them?”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the watching crowd, but Roan felt like he had missed something with the connotation the phrase brought. Most were nodding in agreement with Jake, figuring the punishment was fair; others were going back to their stalls.

When Dawes had nothing left to say, Jake eyed the children and they immediately separated from each other, Johnson ushering Finn and Jasper away, although Finn cast longing looks at them, looking over his shoulder every few steps.

“I’m sorry that I’m unable to accompany you to the market any longer, Roan,” said Jake, glancing at the man. “But I need to take them to the Crowne.”

Roan inclined his head. “I will join you and visit the market another day.”

The walk back to the Crowne was silent and tense, even as the youngest girls huddled together and whispered. 

At Jake’s side, Bellamy, the teenager, walked sullenly. 

“I expected better of you,” said Jake quietly, so quietly that only those walking alongside him heard.

Roan startled, wondering what he had done -- but then he saw the crushed look on Bellamy’s face. He quietly wiped it away to stoic solemnity.

“You want to be in the guard, Bellamy. That means being responsible and knowing the difference between right and wrong,” continued Jake. Bellamy’s head shot up and his mouth opened, but Jake firmly spoke over it. “And it knows when to say ‘no’ to Clarke.”

His mouth snapped shut, but then he mumbled something under his breath that finished with, “--my responsibility.”

“They’re not your kids, Bellamy,” sighed Jake, placing a hand on Bellamy’s shoulder, trying to comfort him. “Your mother and I did you a disservice back then, asking you to take on the responsibility of taking care of them when the Ark came down. Octavia’s your sister and Clarke’s your friend.”

He paused, then continued, “But being the responsible one means telling them off and not going along with their ideas, even if Dawes deserves it.”

Roan’s eyebrows shot up.  _ What did I miss here? _

Bellamy scowled. “He called my mom--”

“I know.”

“And Octavia--”

“Bellamy,  _ I know _ ,” sighed Jake, sounding pained. “Aurora’s a wonderful friend and being on Earth has certainly freed her in ways that she could never have had while on the Ark. I’ll always be thankful that none of you were in Factory Station when the bombs went off, even if it was just pure damn luck. But the culture from the Ark will remain deep in some people, and no matter what we do, or how we act, you won’t be able to change their opinions on your mother, or on Octavia’s existence.”

Catching Roan’s confused look, Jake shot him a returning look, one that said,  _ later _ . The Azgeda prince nodded, slowly, doing his best to appear as not listening while still trying to not miss anything said.

Everyone went silent for a moment, and then Jake spoke again, his voice more amused when he slyly teased, “I’m guessing that whatever Dawes said meant he deserved Octavia biting him?”

“Absolutely.” Bellamy nodded, his tense shoulders easing. “What he said about Clarke--”

“Oh?”

Bellamy shot a look at the back of Clarke’s blonde head. “I’ll let her explain.”

“Mmm,” the noise Jake made was agreement. “So should I expect Octavia to join the guard at some point, too? She is a fierce little thing that would keep us old stodges on our toes.”

Bellamy’s head shot toward Jake. “You’re not banning me?!”

“Of course not,” scoffed Jake. “You’ve been wanting to join the guard since you were thirteen. You’re conscientious and a good leader, Bell. And quite honestly, I can’t even begin to imagine the trouble that those three would’ve got into without you trying to corral them. If you can handle  _ Clarke _ , then I think you’re going to do just fine.”

Bellamy grinned, a wide, beaming smile.

“Anyway,” sighed Jake, “Go get Octavia and Raven and take them to your mother. I’ll have Sinclair speak to Raven later, but right now I need to speak to Clarke.”

Bellamy nodded, bounding ahead a meter or so, and then spoke lowly to his sister and Raven, peeling them off from Clarke; Roan’s guard nodded at Jake, coming from behind and around to follow them, leaving Jake, Roan, and Clarke in the gardens at the base of Cliff Hill and the Crowne.

Instead of taking them inside, Jake led Clarke toward the empty, withered flower boxes. 

At this point, Roan was merely a passive observer, for all that Jake’s attention was on his daughter. He wasn’t unaware of the fact that Jake knew he was still hovering, but perhaps there was a reason why the leader wanted to see how he handled punishments in privacy with his daughter?

Jake and Clarke went to sit on the cold, cement edge of the flowerbox. They were comical in their size differences: Jake was large, broad shouldered and in his jacket, his entire frame nearly dwarfed Clarke, who was a tiny sprite in comparison. The only thing they had in common was the similar shade of blond in their hair.

The two were quiet as Roan watched from behind, hovering just slightly within hearing distance but at least several feet away and off to the side, further up the path. He couldn’t see their faces, as they were all facing the smaller of the two waterfalls, but their tones and inflections gave him enough to know the seriousness of the conversation.

“Whose idea was it, to create the rig for the paint balloons?” asked Jake, breaking the silence.

“Mine,” answered Clarke, a bit petulant in her tone but forceful as well.

“And of course, Raven had to help.”

Clarke’s head bobbed in a nod.

“What did Dawes say that made you act that way?”

Clarke’s form stiffened.

“Clarke…” warned Jake, turning a bit to look down at her.

The tiny girl crumpled a bit into herself, but then said, “Last week when we were at the market, we were hiding behind Missus Nagasaki’s plants, snacking. And we overheard him talk about Mrs. Blake.”

“Bellamy said as much,” sighed Jake.

“He was  _ horrible _ ,” continued Clarke, ire in her voice. “He called her -- a -- a  _ whore _ . And that Octavia would grow up to be one too because she looks like her mom and is wild and is a second child. Because Mrs. Blake - uh, flaunted - the law then Octavia would, too.”

There were several things Roan didn’t understand - such as the information about Octavia being a second child, or how that would make someone wild. And as far as Roan had seen in his time, he had never encountered anyone who paid for sex or bartered for it.

“Why didn’t you come to me about it? Or even Major Byrne?” asked Jake, breaking Roan’s thoughts. He turned back to the conversation.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” mumbled Clarke, barely audible for Roan.

“Clarke!” Jake looked shocked, reeling back as much as he could without leaping off the flower box. “Clarke, I’m your  _ father _ . You can  _ always _ bother me about these things, about anything.”

Clarke seemed miserable, her face turned away with a downward pull to her lips.

“Bellamy might have said something about how Dawes said something about you, too…” Jake suggested, trying to tease more out; it was clear he thought that was the reason why Clarke didn’t really want to upset him -- not just what was said about Aurora Blake and her daughter, but what was said about Clarke.

“Bellamy needs to learn when to shut his mouth,” muttered Clarke, and Roan stifled a laugh.

Jake said nothing, staring at her.

“He said that I was a stuck up,” she paused, then muttered, “ _ bitch _ ,” glancing at her father before rushing through the rest: “--and that everyone called me ‘princess’ because it was clear that even on earth we’re still following the same rules as on the Ark with you in charge and that we’re just snobs, Alpha Station elites that don’t care about anyone except ourselves.”

Jake’s mouth was pressed into a very tight, angry line. “Clarke… you should’ve  _ told _ me…”

“No,” she adamantly said, shaking her head, her own mouth a matching tight line. “No. You’re in charge here, and everyone listens to you. Not because we’re Alpha Station. Not because you’re a snob, or only care for yourself. I can see that. Mrs. Blake can see that, and so can Major Byrne and Mr. Sinclair, and everyone else! You only want to do good. But if you knew what he said… you would’ve had to do something. And then people might have thought you were trying to be like what we were on the Ark.”

Jake looked as stunned as Roan felt. “Clarke…”

_ She’s barely eleven! _ thought Roan, eyes wide.  _ She truly is a princess, thinking of others and her father’s rule. _

“I did it for you so you didn’t have to make a scene,” she continued, mulishly. Her head was turned, facing the falls and she refused to look at her father, crossing her arms. “I did it because you’re doing well here. You keep us alive and happy. I didn’t want him, of all people, to upset that.”

“Oh, kiddo…” Jake slung an arm around Clarke and pulled his daughter into his side, clutching at her tightly while she sniffled into his chest. 

The two hugged tightly, sitting in the cold, and Roan crept away.

* * *

The first snowfall came late in December, for a change. It was during the grounding, meaning that Roan didn’t see Clarke until a few days later, at the tail end of the snowstorm. It was a marvel seeing it from his tenth-floor room, watching the winds batter at the thin glass but never break it. No cold air seeped through any cracks, and while he had a permanent fire going in his fireplace mostly due to ingrained habit of his from living in Azgeda, the entirety of the Crowne’s temperature was regulated by something Eddison Cheng explained to him as ‘climate control,’ leaving the same temperature everywhere in the building.

On the fourth day, when the storm passed, Jake knocked on his door, dressed for winter in a large, thick coat, mittens, scarf, and hat. Clarke was at his side, matching in wear if not in bright colours as opposed to Jake’s standard black. What was different was that Clarke had a knitted scarf with her, a soft grey piece.

“This is for you,” she said, extending her arms and holding the snakish scarf aloft in a gesture of goodwill. 

Roan stared at it, then Jake, who nodded at it emphatically. Roan grimaced at its lumpiness, but took the scarf and said, “Um.  _ Mochof _ .” At their matching blank looks, he said in Gonasleng, “Thank you.”

Clarke’s face lit up, murmuring “mochof, mochof,” under her breath. “What’s ‘you’re welcome’?”

“ _ Pro _ ,” answered Roan, feeling a bit bewildered. 

Clarke did the same with the new word while Jake suppressed his amusement by firmly pressing his lips together. While Roan floundered for something to breach the awkward silence that settled, Jake took control.

“We’re going out with some guards to check the perimeter,” the leader explained. “Since Clarke is still grounded, and I wanted her to get away from her artwork for a bit, I suggested she come with me. Would you like to join us?”

“It’s why I made a scarf!” piped up Clarke, staring at it and then looking at the older teen. “I mean, it was originally for Raven, but since I can’t see her, and it was just sitting there, I thought of you.”

“Oh.” Roan blinked, touched. He cleared his throat, trying to rid himself of the lump there. “Yes. Yes, I will join you.”

“Great,” said Jake, although there was something knowing in his eyes. “We’re going to be down in the lobby. Meet us there once you’re sufficiently clothed.”

Not even ten minutes later, Roan joined Jake and Clarke, who were with Major Byrne, Sergeant Scott, Guardsman Taggart, and a few other guards that Roan did not know personally but only by sight as they were often assigned to the Crowne.

With her no-nonsense voice, Byrne called, “Let’s head out,” and took the lead with Jake as they headed east, toward where Roan and Clarke first met. It was by chance then that Roan fell into step with Clarke near the back of the group, with only Guardsman Taggart near them. He was apparently Clarke’s personal guard.

Although certainly not upset with the companionable silence between himself and the girl ten years his junior, Roan eyed her, wondering what to say. Clarke seemed oblivious, sticking her tongue out and trying to catch snowflakes as they gently floated down around them, or hopping into the much larger footprints of the guards that walked ahead of her. She was absently humming that same tune that he heard her do when they first met, and in his room. 

Finally, Roan said, “You have heart.”

Clarke paused, looking up from a footprint. “What?”

“Your attempt against that man - Dawes --” Roan looked around the landscape as they left the main settlement and began walking through open fields and small, forested clusters.

Clarke’s entire body froze. “You  _ know _ ?”

“I was there at the marketplace,” explained Roan, trying not to feel miffed that she completely overlooked him. He was nearly as large as her father! Maybe he wasn’t as wide in the shoulders, but he was as tall, and he certainly looked different enough that he stood out amongst the others of her people…

“Oh.” Clarke blinked. “I’m sorry… I guess I was so focused…” Her cheeks turned bright red that had nothing to do with the cold biting at them. Her blue eyes seemed brighter when she turned to him and shyly said, “Mochof.”

Roan gruffly replied, “Pro. But you should also consider being sneakier.”

Instantly, Clarke’s soft look faded into annoyance. “What.”

Ignoring the warning tone, Roan continued, “It is obvious that you and your  _ breida _ play pranks and that the other girl’s contraption was of her design. You should be sneakier. An enemy who doesn’t know all your methods of attack can’t point a finger at you later.”

Clarke was rather put out with the lesson, but nodded, taking it to heart. But then something sly slid over her face, and she asked, innocently, “What would you have done?”

Roan thought about it, wondering how he could attack a man for the things he said, not just about the kind woman who healed him, but her daughter, and then Clarke. He wouldn’t slit his throat - he would just be dead, with no lesson learned. Perhaps flog him? So that the memory of his pain would be a deterrent for future attacks? Destroy his reputation, take his business away?

Unfortunately, Roan was so caught up in thinking ways to answer Clarke’s question that he completely failed to keep an eye on the girl and what she was up to -- and it so became clear that she asked him that question to distract him, using his lesson to her advantage when a very wet, large snowball slammed into his bare cheek.

Roan froze, blinking in shock as the cold sludge slipped from his cheek and then into the collar of his furs. Immediately, he swore, loudly, and began a jig to shake the snow from his furs. When he looked up, Clarke was laughing, bent at the waist. Nearby, Taggart was snickering.

“Y-Your -- f-face!” gasped Clarke, finally standing up. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes were sparkling, and her laugh was clear.

“My face,” echoed Roan, his voice low in warning despite the smirk on his lips.

Unaware of the danger, Clarke nodded.

Then Roan knelt, scooping freshly fallen snow into his hands and made a snowball which he launched at Clarke, hitting her with warrior accuracy in the chest.

She shrieked, hands frantically wiping it off from her jacket. 

“How about your face, now, princess?” teased Roan, the endearment he often heard others use around her slipping from his lips unconsciously. 

Clarke stared at him, open-mouthed for a long moment before her grin split her face. “War! It’s war! Taggart, get him!”

Taggart snorted and shook his head, stepping back. “Not a chance, princess. You’re on your own.”

Clarke gasped. “You  _ traitor _ !” just as Roan took advantage and launched another snowball at her.

Then, suddenly, the two were gasping and laughing, trying to make snowballs quicker than the other even as they laughed and slipped in the snow; Clarke eventually gave up and just scooped up a bunch of loose snow to shove down Roan’s furs where they gapped open. He cursed loudly in Azgedasleng while Clarke sniggered at him.

They were well behind the others of the group but not out of sight or hearing distance; it was clear that the others wanted to avoid getting caught up in the impromptu snowball fight, but were keeping an eye on them from where they were several meters away.

“I’ll get you for that, Clarke!” Roan launched himself at the girl, but with exaggerated movements and let her skip to the side with a squeal.

She raced around Taggart, who stood stiffly, even as she gripped the back of this jacket. “Save me, Tag!”

“Oh, no,” the guardsman began, stepping away. “Not a chance. Have you  _ seen _ Roan’s muscles? No, thank you.”

Roan cackled as Clarke pouted and dove for her again. She dodged and ran away, toward a cluster of trees even as Jake called, “Slow down, Clarke!” 

She did, gasping loudly against the cold air, turning her back to them as she faced down the guard. She raised a mittened hand and waved. “Okay, okay!”

Roan was close by, catching up to her in several long, loping strides. A snowball was in each hand as he approached. Amusement coated his voice when he asked, “Clarke Griffin, do you surrender?”

Clarke opened her mouth to reply, when immediately Roan’s entire demeanor shifted from playful to tense in a single moment. Even as he shouted, “Clarke, down!” he was throwing the snowballs at her --

She fell to her knees, twisting and watching as the snowballs sailed over her and toward the stranger in thick, heavy sodden furs and white face paint. They dodged the first, let the second hit, and then shouted something in their language.

Roan responded by withdrawing his ever-present sword for his sheath, just as the stranger brought his sword down toward her. 

Clarke scrambled through the snow toward Roan and then behind him, just as Taggart came racing up, his handgun up and pointed at the stranger that engaged Roan. The other guards and her father were running toward them, hindered by the fresh snow.

“Goddamn, I can’t get a clean shot,” muttered Taggart, his dark eyes moving between Roan and the stranger as their swords clashed and rang off of each other.

Clarke stared, watching the two in awe and horror.

Roan dodged a swing, bringing his own sword up to slice at the stranger, but the man recovered from his miss and brought his sword to block Roan’s upward swing. The two swords clanged, the sound ringing loudly across the snow.

Then Roan pushed, using his height but the stranger had weight and shoved him back, hitting him on his injured hip with a tight fist. 

Although healed, Roan paled, groaned, and stumbled back. The stranger used the distraction, twisting his wrist and disarming Roan from his sword as well. The sword was sent flying and landed heavily in the snow far from everyone.

“Roan, back up!” called Taggart, wanting an opening to fire on the stranger.

But Roan refused, staring the stranger down; he would go down fighting and stay between his assassin and Clarke, and Jake, and the others who showed him kindness.

The man said something again, a jeer in his voice as his eyes darted over at Taggart and Clarke, and he raised his sword for a what could be a killing blow --

_ Fftpptt. _

A bolt of brown and glinting metal flew between Roan and the stranger, dangerously close, and embedded itself in the stranger’s throat.

The stranger looked shocked for a moment, blinking just as blood bubbled from the corner of his mouth. Then he fell to his knees, and then forward, face-first into the snow that began to rapidly stain red.

Clarke, watching Roan, saw the young man swallow thickly and then slowly turn to follow the bolt’s direction. Clarke’s own eyes widened as she saw her father standing, surrounded by the guard with Byrne at his side and her rifle up, ready to fire. Except none of the guards fired a single shot, discharging their guns.

Instead, Jake stood sideways, his right arm extended with a modified mechanical single-bolt crossbow attached to his wrist. 

There was something cold in his face: perhaps the icy blue to his eyes, or the way his jaw was granite or even the cool assessment he made as he kept his eyes on the stranger -- whatever it was, Roan’s breath caught in his throat.

“I thought you didn't carry any weapons,” croaked Roan, and despite the distance between him and Jake Griffin, the man heard. “You never have.”

There was a grim look to Jake when he replied. “I said I didn’t  _ like  _ them -- not that I didn’t know how to use them.”

Roan’s entire form was frozen as he stared at the man, and was suddenly very, very aware that his sword was too far for him to reach if Jake suddenly decided he was an enemy.

With a certain economic calmness, Jake snapped the two limbs back to the barrel of the crossbow and pulled his jacket sleeve down to conceal it. He then began walking toward Roan, Clarke, and Taggart -- the latter who had pulled Clarke aside and away from the bleeding man.

Jake drew even to Roan’s sword, glancing at it.

Roan inhaled sharply.  _ Is he going to… _

Then the man knelt, picked it up, and began walking again. When he was an arm’s length from Roan, he held out the sword, hilt toward the young Azgeda warrior. “I believe this is yours.”

“Thank you,” said Roan through stiff lips. 

They both looked at the stranger.

“Who is he?” asked Jake, kneeling just as Byrne came up behind.

“The white face paint is supposed to make him look like Azgeda,” explained Roan, his insides jelly. He was waiting for Jake to say something -- about not being able to protect his daughter, about his failure to kill the enemy -- but the man was surprisingly silent. “But you see the tattoos? The black marks underneath?”

Byrne leaned forward and used some snow from her boot to wipe it on the dead man’s face to wash the paint off, leaving some black marks.

“Trikru,” sighed Roan. “They are at war with my people.”

“So this was an attack on you?” asked Jake coolly. Something flashed in his blue eyes and Roan mentally cringed. 

“This is the same man who attacked me,” explained Roan. “I suppose he wanted to finish the job.”

“And what is so special about you, hmm?” asked Jake, but his voice was low.

Roan’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he struggled to come up with an answer other than ‘I am the crown prince to Azgeda and this was an assassination attempt to upset my mother and throw into chaos the lines of succession.’

“Is… is he dead?”

At the tiny voice, both Jake and Roan turned to see Clarke had moved closer to them, a sickly green hue to her face as she stared at the dead body in the snow.

Immediately, Jake turned from Roan and began barking orders. “Taggart, get Clarke out of here and back to the Crowne; take Scott and Davis with you. Byrne, strip him down. Khalil, DiPalao, help Major Byrne. Ruiz, you and Levinson can run back to Niagara and bring back a cart to bring this man’s body. Roan.”

Roan startled at hearing his name. His eyes moved from the dead body to Jake. He was sure he was about to be banished, or killed… 

“Thank you for keeping yourself between him and Clarke,” said Jake, a solemn look on his face. “If anything had happened to her--”

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” said Roan, surprisingly himself as the words escaped before he thought them.

Jake leaned forward and clasped his hand tight on Roan’s shoulder. “Really. Thank you.”

Unsure of what to say, Roan just nodded.

“Can you go back with her and Taggart?”

Roan nodded again, backing up slowly until he was a few paces away and then joined Taggart, who had a hand on Clarke’s back, gripping the fabric and keeping her in place despite the girl desperately wanting to go to her father.

“Dad - please! I want to stay with you!” she cried, unshed tears in her eyes.

Jake shook his head. “Go with Taggart and Roan, kid. I’ll be here a while, and they’ll stay with you until I’m back later.”

“Dad--!”

Taggart then reached forward and hefted Clarke up. Despite her age, and her gangly, tiny frame, Taggart had enough muscle on him that he could pick Clarke up and carry her away, despite her cries.

Roan felt each one like a dagger to his heart, thinking that had Jake not killed the Trikru man, there was a good chance that he’d never hear Clarke’s voice, or her laugh, again.

* * *

Much, much later, when the sun had set and it was very late -- or very early -- Jake stopped by Roan’s room.

The man had smudges under his eyes and he had a sort of weariness to him that came from a long day or hard decisions, and Roan thought it was a combination of both in the way that Jake eventually collapsed onto the couch.

Swallowing his shame, Roan broached the conversation first, beginning in a very quiet, halting voice. “Had you not killed the Trikru man --” he stopped. “I would have failed. I am sorry.”

“What are you sorry about?” asked Jake, looking up in surprise.

“He would have cut me down and then gone after Guardsman Taggart and Clarke. I put her in danger,” explained Roan, fighting the urge to wring his hands. Instead, he stood stiffly.

Jake shook his head. “Taggart would’ve killed him well before he could’ve laid a hand on Clarke. I have no doubt about that.”

Roan wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he kept quiet. The fireplace in Roan’s room cracked and popped in the silence.

Finally, Jake said, “So that was your assassin, huh?”

“Yes,” agreed Roan.

“No one else after you then?” asked Jake.

_ So, this was it. He will have me leave, _ thought Roan. Swallowing, he said instead, “I can have my things packed and ready to go by the morning.”

“Go? Go where?” asked Jake, confused.

Roan blinked, surprised by the pain at the thought of leaving these people just yet. “Back to Azgeda. It would be best--”

“Whoa, kid,  _ whoa  _ \-- Roan, slow down -- what do you mean,  _ leave _ ?” Jake stood, hands out. “We don’t want you to leave - not unless  _ you _ want to.”

“You… don’t want me to go? But…” Roan looked around the room for an answer that he wouldn’t receive. “But my shame in failing to protect Clarke…”

“Oh, boy.” Jake raised a hand and rubbed his head tiredly. “Roan, no one is kicking you out. There is no shame here -- but if you want to make up for it, then stick around and keep an eye on Clarke. God knows Bellamy would need the help.”

_ True, _ thought Roan. Then, tentatively, he asked, “You don’t want me to go?”

“ _ No _ ,” replied the man empathically. “Besides, it’s winter. You might be from the Ice Nation, but I don’t want you to freeze to death on my watch.”

“Oh.”

The two men stared at each other until Jake said, “We’re good now, kid?”

Roan nodded. “ _ Sha _ .”

“Right.” Jake cleared his throat and went to leave. When he was at the door, Roan stopped him.

“Jake?”

“Hmm?” the other man turned.

“Why don’t you like weapons?” the thought had been bothering him since he had used the crossbow to shoot the Trikru warrior; it was something small, hidden, and there was clear distaste in the act itself. But Jake hadn’t hesitated at the time.

There was something sad on Jake’s face. “You heard Clarke that day - she didn’t want to bother me with her problems. She wanted to protect me. She was a shield while Raven was the sword.”

There was a pointed look he made, but Roan was still confused. It must have shown on his face because Jake sighed and answered the look.

“I don’t need to be a sword, Roan,” the man said, his voice tired and the lines on his face more prominent than Roan had ever seen. “I don’t want to fight anyone -- but what I will do, is protect my people. I’d much rather be their shield, to take every blow and feel it so that they don’t have to.”

He paused, turning back to the door and opening it, leaving the room with a final, parting shot.

“And that includes you, too.”

* * *

{TBC...}


	5. Skaikru

Oceans Rise, Empires Fall (we have seen each other through it all)

Kneazle / writing-as-tracey

* * *

SKAIKRU:

It began with Roan complimenting the kettle, well before he first met Clarke. It was polished, heavy, and had a unique design that was reminiscent of before Praimfaya, and almost everyone in Niagara used a similar design.

“Where did you find such a bounty of similar kettles?” asked Roan one day.

Nikola, a fierce-looking woman with long, curly brown hair perpetually tied back in a severe knot ( _ and who would not look out of place in Azgeda’s warriors _ , Roan thought), twisted her lips up into a smirk. “We made it.”

Roan sputtered, “M-Made?”

The tour he was given of their production house - a loud, clanging, and brilliantly hot hall, was an eye-opener. Sweat trickled down his back and around his neck as his head turned left and right on a continuous swivel, trying to take in each individual boiler, grate, and metalsmith as they worked on multiple projects or larger pieces together in a huge furnace.

When one - Patrick Collins - displayed from start to finish an intricate, delicately designed metal flower, the tickling of an idea came to Roan.

* * *

“Are all your people so skilled in creating things?” Roan asked Jake one evening when they shared a meal, while Clarke was with the Blakes.

“What?” asked Jake, staring at him.

Roan waved a hand and the question away. “Nevermind.”

* * *

By chance, Roan’s stay throughout the winter with them included the anniversary of their arrival from the sky. The feast held that week was spectacular, rivaling some of the earliest memories he had when Azgeda was still trading bountifully with the other kru.

Some people preferred private celebrations or elsewhere, but a large amount elected to attend the Crowne’s celebration in one of their many celebratory halls (and that was strange to Roan, that there were large rooms dedicated singularly to celebrations and not as a throne room - as Jake and those closest to him preferred the glass-enclosed top-floor conservatory for their meetings), near the other meeting rooms they used for educating their young.

The space was already filled, busy, and loud. There was a large buffet spread of food coming in from the kitchen, continuously refilled, and a space in the middle for dancing but most tables and chairs formed a square C around the space. People were chatting with friends or sitting with their families and - not for the last time - Roan was overwhelmed. 

The music was strange and loud when pumped through speakers - coming from all angles from above him, in corners of walls which made him a bit jumpy, to be honest - but then those who would play instruments took up a spot near the back and began playing and people began dancing.

Roan was very aware that he was a representative for Azgeda, even if Jake’s people didn’t know that, so he made sure he was on his best behaviour, sticking close to the man’s side or one of his “ministers,” as he called them.

At one point, his eyes caught sight of Clarke, sitting nearby at a table with her friends - Raven, Octavia, Finn, Connor, Derek, Sterling, Jasper, and Jill - with Bellamy nearby to keep an eye on them while simultaneously speaking time with his friends, closer in age: Jones, Tim, Drew, and Bree. Roan knew that Bellamy was interested in the guard, and Jones had already begun his training as a cadet as the eldest, at eighteen. He also had a younger brother somewhere, which was probably why Bellamy and Jones got along so well, from what Roan understood about life in space and second children.

He meandered over to the table and arrived in time to see the two groups had merged and Bellamy was participating in one of his two favourite activities: telling Octavia what to do or teasing Clarke.

“--or are you too stuck up to dance, princess?”

Raven rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you just kiss her already, Blake?”

Bellamy sputtered while Clarke made a face. The others laughed.

“I’ll dance with you if you want, Clarke,” piped up Finn, eyes fixed firmly on the blonde.

Roan snorted under his breath. It was clear that the boy thought Clarke hung the stars and was oblivious to the way Raven stroked her hair nervously around him, interested as well. At least Clarke didn’t seem to give the boy much thought.

“Well,  _ I’m _ going to dance!” declared Octavia, reaching and grabbing Jasper’s hand to pull him out of his seat and then onto the crowded floor.

“C’mon, Bell,” cajoled Bree, the only other blonde in the group, and then Bellamy was off, although much of his attention was on watching where Jasper put his hands on his ten-year-old sister.

“Perhaps Clarke would teach me this dance?” asked Roan, a bit louder than necessary when a squabble broke out between Finn and Sterling about who would ask Clarke to dance while Raven looked increasingly despondent.

Clarke perked up, smiling at him and quickly scrambled out of her seat. “Sure!”

Despite being comically different in heights, the music was fast and apparent that there were no formal steps, so Clarke enjoyed stepping from side-to-side with a few awkward hand gestures until Roan - spying a much older couple dancing - took Clarke’s hand and spun her.

Her dress flared out and she laughed, a pure, loud sound of joy that caused more than a few heads to turn in their direction. He did it again just to see her blue eyes sparkle and hear her laugh. After a bit, he gamely let her spin him. 

_ These people are so free with their affection _ , he thought, desperately wanting to bring Myrabel to these people and see his younger sister dance and smile and laugh the same way; or even for Dorion, his pigheaded, brass brother wrestle and engage with true friends like Bellamy, Tim, Drew - in ways that were forbidden in Azgeda.

Roan danced with Raven twice after Clarke, once with Octavia and never again after she left him winded from an accidental but enthusiastic elbow to his gut, and then twice more with Clarke and then once with Bree, before returning to Clarke, finding his strange little saviour and friend the best company. It was when he was with her that there was a mass exodus of people from the hall, causing him to look around in confusion.

“What is going on?”

“C’mon, we don’t want to miss it!” Clarke was tugging on his hand. “We want a good spot to see everything!”

“See  _ what _ ?”

There was a rush to grab their thick coats and mittens, and then Clarke was grabbing his hand again, tugging him forcefully and pulling him through a crowd until they were outside of the Crowne and down the stone path to the edge of the Falls where an old barrier remained. 

Jake waved Clarke over, and she brought Roan, leaning up against the thick stone and metal railing.

“What are we doing?” asked Roan, glancing around and seeing that, everyone else was breathlessly waiting, their conversations low murmurs with everyone facing the Falls, which were spectacularly lit up with artificial lights from all angles, and changing colour from white, to blue, to red, to green…

Jake glanced at him and smirked. “Wait for it.”

_ “For what?” _ Roan’s impatience was growing.

And then --

_ BOOM.  _

He startled, jerking a bit on Clarke’s hand which was still in his, even as there was a hiss and spit and a coloured line rose from the far bank of the Falls on the other side, culminating in a burst of riotous colour high above them. 

“What--”

“Fireworks, Roan!” grinned Clarke. “To celebrate another year here.”

And then there was another burst of light - in red - and another - in white - and then the air was filled with the crackle and boom of multiple exploding colours, some pinwheeling white in circles. Bits of colour rained down over the Falls, and other fireworks were just starbursts in gold and silver, with trails of light that fell like comets after them.

Those were his favourites, and reminded him so much of the people he stood with: an entire civilization that fell from space.

He glanced down at Clarke’s upturned face, the colours somewhat faded but reflected on her as her light skin turned green briefly. The tip of her nose was red and her eyes were sparkling and Jake had an air that radiated contentment at his side even as his light hair turned somewhat blue with the next collection of fireworks.

Roan didn’t know what made him speak at that moment, but -- the kettles, the cable car, the fireworks, the music, the brewery -- it all came together and he turned to Jake and said, “There are rumours of a Coalition. A collection of all the  _ kru  _ coming together.”

Jake turned to him, confusion writ on his face.

Roan’s words began to tumble from his lips, quickly: “There are others - other groups of people -  _ krus  _ \- you should trade, be introduced - you have so much to add--”

“Okay,” said Jake simply, reaching out and placing a calming, but steadying, hand on Roan’s shoulder. He snapped his mouth shut. “Okay. Let’s talk about it tomorrow. Right now, let’s just enjoy being in the moment.”

Roan nodded, turning his eyes back to the fireworks, but inside, his mind was reeling, with a bubble of hope in his chest:  _ if they meet others - if they join - if the new heda allows - could they - would they possibly -- _

* * *

“I never said thank you for saving my life,” began Roan, one day, slowly.

Jake looked up from his desk in his office at the Crowne. The desk itself was covered in paperwork that was really busy work all detailing a chronology of their time on the earth. 

Roan stood before him, his back straight and tall, his eyes facing forward and at the back wall. It was a warrior’s pose.

“I never wanted you to feel indebted,” began Jake slowly. “It was the right thing to do.”

Something flickered across Roan’s face and he said, “Nevertheless… I wish to honour your debt. I can…” he swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I can introduce you to the nearest kru for trade.”

_ Gotchya, _ thought Jake, a momentary flash of triumph flickering across his face. They had finally got what they wanted, months down the line, and after they had all nearly embraced Roan as one of theirs. Constance was sure she could convince Roan to not return to Azgeda, wanting the young man to join her as a teacher.

“Roan,” began Jake, standing from the desk. “That’s… that’s very generous of you. Would… would you want us to meet with Azgeda?”

Horror stole across Roan’s face for a moment but then it was gone. “Oh, no. No. I was thinking Podakru -- they are the Lakes people. With the weather changing, they will begin hunting and trading with the southern krus. They’re kind and open as well, so they’d be a much better choice than… than Azgeda right now.”

Jake’s eyes narrowed. Clearly, Azgeda had some type of reputation, but they’d work on that.

“I’d appreciate all your help, Roan,” began Jake, stepping around the desk, hand outstretched. “And if it helps you, then you can consider our debt fulfilled.”

Roan’s smile was relief-tinged but also appreciative. He’d been in Niagara Falls long enough to know what the gesture meant, and he clasped his hand with Jake’s, sealing the deal.

Jake  _ almost _ felt bad, but then thought:  _ I need to know more. I need to protect my people. And I’ll do whatever I have to. _

* * *

The night before Jake and Roan left to find the nearest Podakru village, Clarke burst into Roan’s room.

Three months into his stay, Roan had been partnered with Clarke to keep her out of trouble following the failed assassination attempt on his life. Partly, Roan did it to convey his thanks to Jake and as an honour given that he was Azgeda and not one of them, but after a few weeks of being Clarke’s shadow, Roan had come to understand that it was really a punishment.

Roan  _ completely  _ sympathized with Bellamy, who not only put up with Clarke, but with her best friend Raven, his little sister Octavia, and whomever else the girls wrangled into their schemes. 

Clarke was devious and quiet, with the face of an angel, and often got away with whatever she was planning due to her connection as a Griffin but also because no one expected her to be so cunning. 

Raven was an absolute genius, but rather hard and unrelenting in many ways, but was always game to join Clarke in some type of scheme. The two girls were never far away, and Roan often spent time with Raven as well, but never alone. In a way, the girl with her technological know-how confused and frightened him, especially that one time with the bridge--but they didn’t talk about that.

But Octavia.  _ Octavia was a warrior _ . The girl was fierce, angry, and had with little training the best aim he’d seen in years with her make-shift bow and arrows. Eventually, Roan caved and made Octavia her first set, which may have been a mistake in hindsight when one of her “stray” arrows nearly hit Dawes one day.

But between the three girls, Clarke remained Roan’s favourite to spend time with because the girl was a study in contractions: she was soft and kind and then hard and firm; she was loyal without fault to the point of detriment; she had a cool head for decisions but could burst into tears at the drop of an insult to her friends.

There were eight years between them, but Roan felt that he had aged twenty. Clarke was  _ exhausting _ . The fact that Bellamy dealt with the girls for years and Roan a mere six months upped his estimation of the young teen.

So when Clarke burst into his room, Roan thought nothing of it. She had been doing it long enough it was commonplace, and it was to the point that any other guards had long given up on following her.

“--never going to believe what Finn’s done!” the words were tripping over Clarke’s tongue, spoken well before she opened the door.

Roan looked up from his sack. “What’s the  _ skat _ done now?”

But Clarke was frowning, staring at him; she then looked around his room in confusion. “Why are you packing? Where did everything go?”

Roan took a moment to look around too, seeing what Clarke was seeing. He had gathered quite a lot in the last six months, tiny knick-knacks during his stay, ranging from metallic pieces of Ark scrap, random pieces of clothing, and even a few treasured paperback books. Clarke had drawn him a few times, sometimes in serious profile and other times in comedic situations that never happened (he’d deny his slip on the ice forever).

All of it was packed away.

“I am joining your father tomorrow,” began Roan carefully. “We’re going to look for Podakru.”

Clarke’s frown deepened. “But you’re coming back, right?”

“I am not, Clarke,” said Roan quietly. 

It had been long enough - six, long months - and the snows were melting. The assassin would not be after him and his siblings would be safe; leaving them for much longer and his mother would have her claws in Dorion in ways that Roan could not extract. Azgeda needed him, especially if Trikru was planning more assassinations. They needed to end their war.

“What?” Clarke blinked up at him, her mouth open. “But…  _ why _ ?”

“I must return to Azgeda,” he said softly, moving to sit on the couch. With his height, even sitting, he was level with her face. “My sister and brother are there -- my people --”

“Aren’t  _ we _ your people?” Clarke’s face crumpled.

Roan shook his head. “You know you are not. I am  _ Azgeda _ , Clarke.”

Stomping her foot, Clarke tried a different tactic. “But who will watch me? Bellamy’s going to start his training as a cadet soon.”

“Taggart will likely be back,” said Roan, trying to hide a smile.

Clarke groaned. “He’s so  _ boring _ .”

“I’m sure you’ll keep him on his toes, between you and Raven and Octavia,” teased Roan. “You certainly did with Bellamy and I.”

The girl stilled and her shoulders dropped. “I’ll miss you.” She looked up at him from under her lashes. “You promise you’ll come back to visit?”

Roan nodded. 

“Oh!” like an idea came to her, Clarke’s eyes widened and she shouted, “Stay there!” as she raced out of his room as quickly as she arrived.

With his packing done, Roan relaxed back on the couch, waiting for Clarke to return. She did a few minutes later, her hands behind her back as she held something tightly in their grip. She was biting her lips, nervously, but there was determination in her eyes.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“For your promise to come back,” began Clarke, keeping the item hidden. “You need to return it to me. So you  _ have _ to come back.”

Roan’s eyes softened. How had he grown so fond of the silly girl so quickly? “Very well. I promise. What is it?”

Clarke withdrew her hands from behind her back and thrust the item toward him. He leaned forward on the couch and stared down at the crown made of stars and glitter. The glitter caught in the artificial light of his room and created a shine, one that reminded Roan of the starbursts of fireworks.

“Octavia made it for me, for my birthday last year,” began Clarke. “Do you remember? I was wearing it when we met.”

Vaguely, Roan did. Rather, he remembered something shiny around her head at the time, but had been so delirious from pain, he didn’t remember much after stumbling upon her. 

“Everyone here jokes and calls me ‘princess’ and then Octavia made me this, saying that I was.” There was a tiny scowl on Clarke’s face as she stared down at it, Roan having never taken it from her hands. She turned the crown over, thoughtfully. “And then you called me it.”

She held the crown out to him. Roan’s hands trembled a bit as he took it.

“I know it’s easier for people to just call me princess. But when  _ they _ say it, I know it’s because of my family and what things were like in space,” she explained, with both their hands still on the crown: her tiny ones compared to his larger. “But when you say it, I know it’s just a joke. Something fun shared between us.”

_ There was some kind of irony here _ , thought Roan, a touch hysterical. Clarke was handing him a crown without knowing he was a prince, talking about how he called her “princess” and how that wasn’t a title she could actually own. 

The spark of an idea was beginning to form.

Clarke met his eyes. Gravely, she said, “Bring it back to me.”

“I promise,” he replied, just as solemnly.

* * *

Jake and Roan were quiet for the first few days into their journey on the horses. 

The guards that accompanied the two kept their thoughts to themselves or murmured quietly behind as Roan led the procession along the cracked remains of what could have been a road, heading south-west toward Podakru territory. It would add time to Roan’s return trip potentially through Delfikru and Sangedakru territory before entering Azgeda land, but formally introducing Jake Griffin and his people to worthy traders in Podakru was worth it as a recompense of the care he received.

There was also the chance that his idea would bear fruit, but Roan refused to think further on it. He wouldn’t know until they arrived, but he hoped - he  _ hoped _ -

They came across the first larger settlement five days into their journey from their home -- Niagara Falls, which Roan still had trouble with, given its connotations so closely tied to his mother’s name -- and were watched warily as they reached the edge of the open village.

The village consisted of several large square cabins, and several smaller huts surrounding a large open space in the middle of the village as a meeting point. There were other travellers in the village as Roan recognized the markings and clothing of Boudalan, Trishanakru, and even a few Trikru. There were people from the village trading wares and finds pelts and furs, and handcrafted goods. 

None, Roan was pleased to see, were of the same calibre and quality that Jake’s people could produce and he knew that taking them here first would cement them as skilled craftsmen and encourage open trading between the two peoples.

Immediately, Jake called for a stop and slid from his horse, his two personal guards Major Byrne and Sergeant Scott, immediately following. Roan, aware of the eyes on him in particular and feeling the phantom sting of his healed cut, followed suit but much more slowly.

The previous night, Roan had quietly inquired on what Jake thought his people would want for trade; the man had consulted those with him and fresh fruit, vegetables, and seeds were high on the list despite their remarkable conservatory and greenhouses, but so were pieces of winter clothing and fabrics. 

With that in mind, Roan was ready to play translator until they learned Trigedasleng fluently themselves. It was a bitter thought, as he hoped that his stay with them would encourage them to look favourably on Azgeda for trade and not listen to what the other  _ kru _ , especially Trikru, would say about his people.

As he led Jake and his two guards into the village, they were stopped by several elders and the  _ heda _ of their community.

“Azgeda,” spat one man with a sour look on his face, eyes fixed firmly on Roan and lingering on the half-moon curved scars along his temples and cheeks that indicated his royal and kru status. “What are you doing here? Come to attack Podakru territory? Tired of warring with Trikru?”

_ I am a hainofa of Azgeda! This does not bother me _ , thought Roan as he stared impassively at the group, as much as he could. He focused his sky-grey eyes at their heda, a youngish woman with her hair pulled back from her face and cold, bitter eyes. 

“Heda,” he began, “I am here only to introduce this kru to their nearest trading partners, if you would be willing.”

The heda’s eyes slid from his toward Jake and his guard, cataloging the strange clothing they wore. There were no furs or heavy leathers, but shiny material and layered pieces that were unique in design. They had no scarification on their faces to indicate they were Azgeda, nor tattoos to denote their loyalty to a different kru.

The heda frowned. “Who are they? And why you, hainofa Roan?”

Jake’s eyes twitched from the clan leader toward Roan, recognizing his name despite not understanding the language.

Although Roan was given permission to act as intermediary and translator, he felt unsure of how to answer, so he turned to Jake for guidance. It concerned his people, after all.

“They want to know who you are and why I am with you,” he translated.

“Your business is your own if you wish to share it,” began Jake carefully, “But as to who we are, you can tell them we came from the sky -- not by choice -- and are making a home here on the ground now. We wish to become friendly with our neighbours for trade. We didn’t come empty handed, and would be happy to show off our goods for trade and as an example of what we can craft if people are further interested.”

Roan nodded and translated carefully, leaving out his own relationship to the people, other than he spent some time with them recently. There was no need for the other krus to learn how close he was to death from an assassin’s blade.

The heda’s eyes flicked toward Jake again, something a bit more curious than wary in them. “Are they the ones that fell two years ago?”

Roan nodded in confirmation, although he had no idea if it was two years or not -- if it was, he was even more impressed with how they developed their territory in such a short time. 

The elders of the clan began murmuring, and the word “skaikru” began to pass around the marketspace. Some of the closest to them began to peer around their stalls or look at the guards with more excitement than fear.

“Hainofa Roan,” the heda spoke rather loftily as she tossed her long hair back over her shoulder, “I am Tiac kom Podakru. Introduce me to the Skaikru leader.”

Roan nodded, indicating toward Jake, who stepped forward and away from his guards. He wasn’t smiling, but there was an openness, or warmth, to his face that the Podakru heda seemed to appreciate.

“This is Tiac  _ kom _ Podakru,” introduced Roan to Jake first in Gonasleng. “She is the leader of this village - that is what  _ heda _ means; commander or chief.”

Jake nodded once in understanding and then gave a slightly more respectful, slower nod to Tiac. “A pleasure to meet her.”

Roan repeated the words and Tiac’s mouth twitched upward.

“Tiac kom Podakru, this is--” Roan paused. How was he supposed to introduce Jake? 

Jake’s people were only one community - not spread across like the other krus with smaller villages. There was no need for singular representation from the many clans in Polis, with each  _ heda _ of every village communicating with their kru leader. Jake was also clearly the only one in charge of his people, elected such, but still well-liked and appreciated. 

Then Roan remembered his first meeting with Clarke, and the starry crown she wore -- the one she gifted him before their journey as a reminder. The way some of her friends called her “Princess,” and the way that Jake led his people - so similar to the faint memory he held of his grandfather Theo and the respect his reign earned him. The fact that the home they made for themselves was called “the Crowne,” and the large Gryphon statue that sat by the doors, telling all who entered they were in the domain of the Griffins, sky creatures…

Perhaps it was selfish, but none of the other  _ kru _ had royalty the same way that Azgeda did, and Roan desperately wanted someone to be on  _ his _ people’s side.

He cleared his throat and spoke as clearly as he could, “This is  _ Haihefa _ Jake Griffin kom Skaikru.”

Tiac’s eyebrows shot up, and she glanced between Jake and Roan. “He is the Skaihefa? And  _ he  _ came to see  _ us _ instead of a  _ bandrona _ ?”

Jake frowned, trying to keep up. 

Roan nodded.

Tiac turned back to Jake, eyes wide. “Skaihefa, you honour us.” Then, she bowed back just as deeply as Jake had originally done.

Unsure of what just happened -- but no one was trying to kill them so he was partially relieved -- Jake gave a small smile. That seemed to be enough for the village elders, as they broke into rather excited chatter, as did the market, with the words  _ skaikru _ ,  _ skaihefa _ said reverently. 

Roan stuck by Jake’s side as Tiac moved them from stall to stall, introducing people by name and their ware in simple one or two word explanations. Roan translated where Jake became confused, but by the end of the first hour and a circuit of the small market, he had caught on to most of the Trigedasleng used to denote trades, introductions, and a few compliments.

Those with the newly minted Skaikru brought their own wares out then, from the back of their convoy. Set in the middle of the market with people jostling for a good view, Roan translated where he could. 

Patrick Collins, a metalsmith, began showing some of his delicate statute creations with scrap metal they had from the broken stations. A collaboration between him and someone else created a delicate music box (which greatly shocked Podakru); there were different designs of clothing; thick coils of rope that was better than the hemp and splitting rope the kru used; metal wheels for carts for smoother transportation; and even metal-worked kettles and cutlery. 

The repairs of the brewery in Skaikru’s home had many people in the village appreciative, as they were able to sample different types of alcohol -- some mainly for taste, and others, for medicinal uses.

There were no weapons among the offerings.

Some items were clearly more desirable than others, but everyone was examined and exclaimed over, and soon, Jake had organized several trades (some in his favour and some not), for the items he wanted in exchange for what they brought.

The last thing that caught Jake’s attention was an outlying stall, with clay pots of thick paste -- egg, berries of different kinds, and fat -- in different colours. Immediately, Jake knew what it was and entered into aggressive negotiations for it. 

Tiac, confused, asked, “What do you want this for? It has no practical purpose.”

After Roan translated, Jake replied, “It’s paint! My daughter loves to paint and ran out of supplies ages ago.”

Tiac’s eyes were sharp as she surveyed the Skaikru king anew. “A  _ nomfri _ ? How old is the  _ hainofi _ ?”

“Eleven,” was Jake’s reply and Tiac nodded in satisfaction. 

They finished any outstanding deals with others of the group, and the lighter convoy began preparations to return to their home.

Tiac held out a hand for Jake before he moved toward his horse. “Haihefa Jake. My village of Bralta is pleased to continue trading with Skaikru. Is Podakru welcomed in Skaikru land?”

Jake’s face lit up and he extended his own hand. “Of course! We - uh - Skaikru--” The word was foreign on his tongue but he rallied well, “--would be pleased to host Podakru and continue trade with them.”

Tiac then grasped Jake’s forearm tightly in a clan’s shake, sealing the introduction. As Jake turned to mount his horse, Tiac turned to Roan and said, quietly, “I am surprised, Prince Roan, at your generosity. Perhaps Podukru was mistaken about Azgeda.”

Roan did not smile, but inwardly, a warmth spread across his chest. He had done it! By introducing Skaikru to Podakru, he had turned some of the negative thoughts of Azgeda. 

_ Of course _ , he thought sourly, his mother could still undo that by continuing to attack Trikru, but for now - this was a win.

Roan mounted next to Jake, and Skaikru left the village, heading back east to their own lands, left somewhere wild and unchecked between Podakru (who preferred being near water sources) and Azgeda (who expanded eastward instead of west over time). 

It wasn’t until the second day before Roan would split from the group to go south, when they had all come to a rest and were settled around a campfire enjoying their dinner, that Jake asked, “What does  _ haihefa _ mean? They added it in front of my name when you introduced me that way. They gave you a title too:  _ hainofa _ .”

“It is an honorific,” began Roan, trying not to squirm. He did his best to remain blank in his face to show he had no ulterior motives, despite absolutely having them. “Haihefa means ‘king.’”

Byrne snorted into her drink while a few others, like Collins and Scott, actually laughed out loud -- especially once they spied Jake’s sour face.

“But - I --” the man sputtered, eyes darting from one face to another for support and finding none.

“I guess Clarke really  _ is _ a Princess now,” snickered Taggart, one of the youngest guards, who was often given ‘babysitting’ duties.

“But--” tried Jake again.

“Sir,” began Byrne, clearly running out of patience enough that her blunt manner would bleed through, “It doesn’t really change anything, does it? You’ve been leading us since before we landed, ever since the bombs. You made sure we survived. No one’s said anything about not liking things. I’d leave it since the title clearly means something to these people.”

Jake grumbled something under his breath, falling silent. Roan wondered if he had made things worse, until Jake sighed, “I don’t want to be a king.”

Collins, one of the few who weren’t guards on the journey, smiled, although it was sympathetic. “And that’s why you should be. Those who  _ don’t _ want power, best understand its responsibilities.”

Sergeant Scott nodded solemnly and quietly added, “Uneasy lies the head.”

Roan had never heard the phrase before, but it clearly meant something to Skaikru, who all nodded and murmured agreements.

Jake sighed and the matter was dropped, although a frown remained on his face.

The following morning, a few hours into their ride, Skaikru prepared to peel away from Roan’s desired path to sweep south before moving into Azgeda land. 

The others already said their goodbyes, mostly warm or at least polite for those he didn’t know well, and Roan was fine with that. He lingered with Jake as the older man surveyed him with a look that reminded Roan uneasily of something his father would’ve sent him when he was younger and caught doing something wrong or childish.

“You never said what hainofa meant,” began Jake with a blank face, “But after haihefa, I can guess. Why did you never say you were a prince?”

Roan paused before answering, cautiously, “I didn’t want that to affect your judgment of me.”

Jake sighed. “It wouldn’t have made a difference, Roan--”

“You saw,” the young man broke in, a bit terse, “You saw how they treated me before I told them who you were. Azgeda is unliked. I don’t care about that, but I won’t have my people suffer if I can find a way to improve their lives.”

“By hitching your ride to ours?” Jake let his head shake a bit. “Elevating me to a king--”

“Hardly elevating when you already rule,” muttered Roan.

“That wasn’t because I  _ wanted _ to rule,” argued Jake, mouth turned down in a serious frown. “I did it because my voice was the loudest and calmest at the time when we needed it. I just did whatever I could to keep everyone safe and alive.”

“And perhaps that is why you deserve the title,” argued back Roan. He thinned his lips in annoyance. “Regardless, it is done. By now, Podakru has gossiped enough that news of Skaikru and their Skaihefa will soon make its way to Trikru and the Heda in Polis.”

The two stared at each other for a long moment, then Jake sighed. “You’re right, it’s done. I can’t change it.” He paused and then smiled, a bit ruefully. “And your gamble did pay off. We have new trading partners and got what we wanted from them, thanks to you.”

Roan kindly said nothing, accepting the praise, even as his stomach churned.

Jake huffed a laugh, shaking his head a bit but it was in amusement this time. “Well, kid - whether you’re Prince Roan or just Roan, you’re always welcome with us.” He laughed again. “God,  _ Skaikru _ , huh?”

“You did come from the sky. ‘Sky people’ seems apt to name you,” replied Roan with some internal relief.

“Yeah.” Jake tilted his head back and looked up at the sky. It matched the colour of his eyes. “Don’t be a stranger. Clarke’ll miss you.”

“I’ll do my best,” replied Roan. “Please pass on my respect to  _ hainofi  _ Clarke.”

Jake snorted. “Sure - but without calling her that. She’ll hate it.”

Roan grinned. “All the better to use it.”

Laughing, Jake wheeled his horse around, facing the group that stood a respectful distance away but close enough to come if needed. “May we meet again, Prince Roan.”

At the Skaikru parting, Roan gave a tiny smile, inclining his head. He repeated the sentiment in Trigedasleng. “ _ Mebi oso na hit choda op nodotaim _ , Haihefa Jake.”

He then turned his own horse around, southward, and left Skaikru without looking back. He’d see them again, he was sure; maybe he’d even visit, mentally already planning to return to Skaikru territory with those he trusted, for trade, after the winter snows melted. 

He was even looking forward to seeing Clarke, pulling on her blonde curls and teasingly call her  _ hainofi _ , just to see the ire in those blue eyes -- completely understanding why Bellamy bothered the girl so.

Yes, they’d meet again -- he was certain of it.

* * *

Except… he didn’t.

* * *

{TBC}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably gonna take a break now. I popped out a crap-ton of words and chapters in a short period of time.


	6. The Ark, Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ark comes crashing down to Earth, causing tensions among Skaikru and the other Krus.

Oceans Rise, Empires Fall (we have seen each other through it all)

Writing-as-Tracey

* * *

THE ARK, PT 1

* * *

7 YEARS LATER

There was a loud bang, and the entire ship shuddered and vibrated with an intensity that Wells had never felt in his entire life. He closed his eyes, leaning his head heavily against the metal of the seat behind him, hoping the press of it would stop his brain from feeling like it was in a blender.

“Aah!” someone screamed.

“Oh! Oh!”

“What was that?” someone else cried.

Calmly, Wells opened his eyes and said, “That was the atmosphere.”

The person who asked, a young Asian teen with wide dark eyes and spiky hair, stared back. He was pale, and it didn’t seem like he would say anything in response.

From opposite Wells, a small, built-in screen flickered on and his father’s face, wearied and lined, appeared. Wells stared, the bitterness creeping up his stomach tasting like bile.

“ _Children of the Ark hear me now. You've been given a second chance, and as your Chancellor, it is my hope that you see this as not just a chance for you, but a chance for all of us; indeed, for mankind itself. We have no idea what is waiting for you down there. If the odds of survival were better, we would've sent others first. Frankly, we're sending you because your youth has made you the best at adaptation for your imminent survival on the ground_.”

 _Gee, thanks Dad,_ thought Wells, staring at the screen with disdain, even as somewhere else on his level of the dropship someone laughingly jeered, “Your dad is a dick, Wells.”

He sighed. _Don’t I know it..._

His father continued, “ _Those of you with crimes will be forgiven, your records wiped clean. Those of you who volunteered or were chosen, know that we honour your sacrifice. The drop site has been chosen carefully. Before the last war, Mount Weather was a military base built within a mountain. It was to be stocked with enough non-perishables to sustain three hundred people for up to two years_.”

Wells’ eyes trailed from his father’s image on the screen, tuning out the words as he lingered on the faces of those around him. 

_“Mount Weather is life. You must locate those supplies immediately. Your one responsibility is stay alive.”_

Wells closed his eyes as the dropship hit the lower atmosphere and the ride smoothed out. Then, it was freefall until the ship slammed into the ground, bringing Wells forward. He remained in his seat only due to the belts strapping him in, but his head banged against the headrest when he fell back.

Then, there was silence.

“Listen,” whispered the teen from across Wells, making him open his eyes. He was looking around the silent ship in wonder. “No machine hum.”

Slowly, Wells saw a few brave souls begin to unbuckle their seatbelts. Then others did, and before he knew it, someone pulled the lever on the ground level of the ship and they were breathing fresh, _not_ recycled, air for the first time. Bringing a hand up against the bright glare of the sun, Wells squinted, scanning the treeline and the horizon as he moved slowly in a circle. As he did so, his mouth drew further and further down into a heavy scowl.

“Why so serious, Jaha? It’s not like we died in a fiery explosion.” 

Wells turned, eyes falling on a pointy chinned, shallow faced teen with stringy hair. _John Murphy_ , thought Wells sourly. He just _had_ to be on the Dropship he was on, wasn’t he?

Refusing to acknowledge the teen who was once his classmate until he was thrown in the new Skybox jail on Go-Sci, Wells turned his back on him, clearly dismissive. “I don’t have time for you, Murphy.”

“Hey! Hey, your Lordship!” Wells turned back to see Murphy glared hotly at him. “Yeah, you don’t like being called that, do you, Prince Wells?”

Sighing heavily, Wells strode up to Murphy, and then, once he was sure the other teen was listening, he extended a hand and pointed at a mountain range. 

“Do you see that peak over there?”

Murphy’s eyes darted to follow the finger.

“Yeah.”

“ _That’s_ Mount Weather,” stressed Wells, like that explained everything; and, it did, as Murphy’s eyes widened. “There's a radiation-soaked forest between us and our next meal. They dropped us on the wrong damn mountain!”

* * *

Life in Niagara Falls that day was just like any other day. The streets were busy with not just Skaikru, but several traders from Podakru, Sandekru, and Trikru, mixing their heavy furs, leathers and tanned linen cloth with the shiny polyester and knitted wool of Skaikru.

Finn darted and weaved through the heavy pedestrian congestion that lined Cliff Hill, pushing up on his toes to scan the many heads before him, looking for a particular blonde. He had begun his journey at the Crowne, but none of the guards knew where Clarke was, and none seemed inclined to point him in an accurate direction; Byrne had taken one look at him, curled her upper lip and suggested, snidely, “Have you tried the Forge?”

Finn winced; that was one of the _last_ places he wanted to look, but also probably the best place for Clarke to hide. With a sigh, he started at his father’s shop, pushing open the door to Collins Consortium. “Dad?”

“Back here!”

Finn meandered down through the narrow aisles and nodded at Greta (a quiet Trikru woman who expressed interest and talent in metalwork that his father took on as an apprentice a few years ago), who stood at the main register desk. Moving past her, Finn pushed a thick curtain that separated the shop from the tinkering room his father kept.

“Dad, have you seen Clarke?” asked Finn, glancing around like she was hiding behind a sheet of metal.

His father, with his hair going very grey, looked up. His eyes were comically huge from behind magnifying lenses that he used for delicate work. He blinked and went, “Noo…?” Then he paused, frowning. “Wait - does this have something to do with what I heard a few nights ago--”

“Right, thanks Dad! See you later!” Finn blushed a furious red and hastily beat a retreat from the workroom, almost tripping over his feet as he called an absent goodbye to Greta as well.

Back on the street, he glanced around and began crisscrossing from one stall to another, asking variations of the same question:

At the art supply stall: “Has Clarke been by today?”

At a Trikru stall of small, potted plants: “Have you seen the hainofi recently?”

“Did Clarke come by this way?” he asked a man who exclusively dealt in before-Praimfaya technology and goods -- Bellamy often sought the man out when he had books.

Everyone shook their heads or gave negative replies, and Finn was becoming desperate. He _had_ to talk to Clarke - to explain -- 

There was nothing for it. With his stomach in his throat, Finn slowly turned to the top of Cliff Hill where the tram was waiting to take people to the end of town.

He had to go to the Forge.

* * *

Raven knew the moment Finn stepped foot in the Forge, despite her work area being well away from the entrance. It was like there was something in the air. 

She ran a bare arm across her sweaty forehead. She had a makeshift face shield that would drop down from a heavy-duty headband around her head and overtop her dark trousers and a tank top, Raven wore a standard Forge leather apron and heavy mittens for when she worked directly with the kiln, but at that moment, she was readying a blowtorch for a weld. 

Her hair was tied up in a long, sleek ponytail, keeping the back of her neck free. When the back of her neck tingled, the icy feeling of someone’s eyes on her, she _knew_ it was Finn.

“Raven.”

She ignored him, igniting the blowtorch with a few passes of the ignition until the flame caught and hissed out, a bright blue.

“Raven, _please_.”

“Hmm? What? I’m busy now, can’t talk,” she called loudly, slamming the headgear down in place.

“C’mon, Raven!” the seventeen-year-old whined. “I want to talk to you - to explain myself. It was a mistake, really, I didn’t mean to kiss Clarke--”

 _Oh no he didn’t_ , thought Raven, fury overtaking her. She slammed the blowtorch down, causing it to turn off, and spun on her heel to face Finn. She threw the headgear off and _glared_.

He took a few steps back at her ire. “Raven--”

“It was a mistake?” she echoed, pitching her voice. “You didn’t mean to kiss _my best friend_? In front of me? In front of _everyone_?”

He cringed back.

Raven scowled, her long ponytail swinging as she turned her back on her ex-boyfriend. “Get out of here, Finn, before we both do something _I_ know I won’t regret.”

Finn opened his mouth once more, hoping words would come to him, but when nothing did, he shut his mouth. “Yeah, okay,” he murmured, and with hunched shoulders, left the Forge. 

Outside, and away from the sweltering heat, he realized there was one more place he hadn’t checked for Clarke: the old dropship, now used as a first checkpoint near the lake. Bellamy was on guard duty, as always with Clarke, and sometimes he took shifts there.

After reaching the furthest tram stop, Finn’s walk to the dropship was mostly silent, with only the tiniest grumbles escaping his mouth every so often. Birds chirped and some squirrels raced by him, preparing for their winter by storing their food, but he didn’t see anyone along the dirt path.

Finally, the sun glinted off the dropship’s metal and Finn strode to the open door and up the ramp, to where Bellamy sat at a makeshift round table, along with Drew and Jones, cards in their hands and crudely-made betting chips in piles in front of them or on the table. 

None of them looked up as Finn stumbled in, but Bellamy still said, sharply, “She’s not here. Now go away.”

“But I haven’t even asked--”

“She’s not here, Collins.”

Bristling, Finn stood straight. “I need to speak with her--”

“Have you tried the Crowne?” drawled Jones, eyes flickering up from his cards briefly to cooly land on Finn.

“She’s not there…”

“The Forge?” jeered Drew, leaning back in his chair.

Finn swallowed thickly. “Raven didn’t say…”

The three young men groaned, and Drew didn’t even fight to keep the incredulity from his voice when he said, “You asked _Raven_ of all people? Are you insane, man?”

Finn’s eyes darted from one guard to another, each wearing the synthetic black fabric of the Ark, and each outfitted with a handgun that they knew how to use. Jones had even expressed interest once to someone from Trikru about learning how to fight with a sword but had settled on a collapsible staff that he carried on his back.

Finn wasn’t going to get anything from these men. Finally, he sighed, and nearly begged, “if you see Clarke, can you _please_ tell her that I’m looking for her? _Please_?”

Bellamy snorted. “Sure thing, Collins.”

They weren’t going to say anything, Finn knew. Bellamy was too loyal to Clarke as her personal guard, and friend, and if Clarke didn’t want to be found, Bellamy would never betray that. With a heavy heart, Finn turned and trudged out of the dropship and back to Niagara Falls, unable to find Clarke to explain his feelings and why he kissed her in front of all their friends and his girlfriend.

Back in the dropship, the three guards continued their game for another two rounds. Then, suddenly, a cascade of long blonde hair dipped down from the open hatch above them and Clarke’s head - upside down - poked out. 

“Is he gone?” she whispered frantically.

Bellamy didn’t look up, deciding which card to discard. “About ten minutes ago now.”

Clarke sighed and nimbly hooked her hands around the metal rods by the hatch and pulled herself out and then gently fell to her feet near the table and between Jones and Drew. Drew looked up at her.

“You can’t avoid him forever, you know,” he said.

Clarke scowled. “Watch me.”

Drew rolled his eyes while Jones and Bellamy watched on, Bellamy even hiding a smirk behind his cards. Clarke’s scowl deepened, and with a quick glance at his cards, she announced, “Drew’s got two kings and an ace.”

He sputtered while Bellamy and Jones keenly returned to their cards and changed their bets. Clarke decided she had caused enough chaos and strode out of the dropship.

“Clarke, you brat!” shouted Drew after her.

For a moment, Clarke considered shouting an insult back but shrugged and moved to the path to head back to the Crowne, when a loud _boom_ broke the atmosphere. She ducked, reflexively, hunkering down with her arms over her head and on her knees.

Bellamy was the first racing out of the dropship, eyes hard and gun drawn. Jones and Drew were two paces behind him and the three moved to surround Clarke, even as Bellamy hauled her to her feet.

“Look,” she breathed, head tilted up and they followed her gaze.

Bright against the midday sun, something from space was falling, burning bright as it cut a swath across the horizon. The object cracked in three, a few dull _booms_ reaching them as two parts disappeared over the horizon to the south. The final piece soared over them, leaving a wide streak of white and grey smoke clouds in the air, and then disappeared east in Azgeda territory.

“What _was_ that?” breathed Drew.

Eyes wide, Clarke breathlessly replied, “The rest of the Ark.”

* * *

The heavily modified jeep spun its tires and kicked up a cloud of snow as it came to a stop past the charred treeline and just barely into the open space created by the fallen piece of the Ark. Pieces were still smoking, and there were bits of charred, molten metal warped and curled in snowbanks. There was also a collection of spears and arrows surrounding the gaping mouth of the Ark piece, but, as Sergeant Scott noticed with a breathless sigh of relief, no blood. 

The engine idled, with Scott nodding at the driver to keep it warm even as he opened the door and stepped out into the deep snow and toward the dark, fur-wearing Azgeda warriors who formed a line near the trees. Flakes of snow sometimes impeded the view, but they were lazy snowflakes, large and downy as they created deep drifts.

Scott shouted his greeting, raising his hands and keeping his gun in view without touching it. “ _Meika ste slak_ , Azgeda!”

After a long minute, one of the fur-clad warriors stepped forward, coming near Scott. “ _Yumi ste klir_ , Skaikru.”

Scott inaudibly sighed, lowering his hands. “I’m Sergeant Warren Scott kom Skaikru.” He nodded at the large Ark piece. “How long has it been since the piece landed? Has anyone come out? Has anyone tried to attack Azgeda or the Skaikru inside?”

“I am Kingston kom Azgeda,” the gruff-looking Azgeda, with his bone-white face paint, scowled. “Some _goufa_ tried to leave your piece of sky with some men and women, but we stopped that.”

Scott pursed his lips. “Any blood drawn?”

Kingston sent Scott a dirty look. “We have a treaty with Skaikru. We would not draw blood.”

“Yes,” agreed Scott slowly, pointing at the Ark piece next, “With _us_ \- but they wouldn’t know that.”

Kingston’s brow furrowed. “You did not call them down?”

Scott shook his head. “We didn’t even know if any of our people were still _alive_ in space.”

Kingston turned back to survey the Ark, with a heavy frown. He then shook his head, dislodging a bit of snow that accumulated during their talk. “What now, Scott kom Skaikru?”

“Haihefa Jake would like permission to safely retrieve our people and transport them across Azgeda lands to Skaikru. We would not impose any longer than necessary to move all survivors. Those who need medical help might take a bit longer, but we’re hoping to be done within five days or so, with the Azplana’s blessing.”

“What would Azgeda receive for allowing such?” grizzled Kingston.

“Skaimetal, minus any specialized equipment inside that only Skaikru can operate,” answered Scott immediately. “All those outside metal sheets and panels.”

Kingston snorted. “And to melt it down or reshape it, we’d still need Skaikru.”

“True,” grinned Scott, “But at a lower cost than many others who don’t have access to the metal regardless. Besides, the Ark landed in Azgeda. It _is_ , theoretically, yours by right.”

Kingston’s mouth twitched up into a smile underneath his heavy, snow-crusted beard. “Very well. It is agreed.”

Scott and Kingston reached forward and clasped each other’s forearms, sealing the deal. 

“I’m going to approach. I brought some warm drinks though, for you and your men,” added Scott, nodding back at the jeep.

Kingston’s face lit up. “Some more of that fire drink?”

Scott stifled a laugh at the description of the schnapps that the brewery created and distributed to Skaikru allies, which was a big hit in Azgeda for its warmth. “Yes, we have a few new flavours, too…”

Kingston shouted wordlessly in joy and waved over a few other warriors, then eagerly made his way to the jeep. Scott shook his head and slowly made his way to the Ark opening until he was a few meters away. He then called, loudly, “Hello?! This is Sergeant Scott. Is anyone there?”

There was a moment of shocked silence, and then a familiar head poked itself out from around the corner and darkness of the entrance. “Scott?”

The Skaikru guard grinned. “Well, look who it is! Charles Pike.”

“Is that really you?” Pike’s eyes went large and he slowly walked toward him. His eyes darted around the bright exterior, lingering in the distance on the Azgeda warriors who were cheerfully shouting and toasting one another with the Skaikru brew. “What’s going on? Why aren’t they attacking--”

“I’ll explain all of that before we leave, but I need to know if there are any injuries,” began Scott patiently, trying to draw Pike’s attention back.

“Um, yeah,” the other man stuttered, swallowing thickly as he turned back to the guardsman. “We have about two hundred people, and five dead on landing. Twenty injuries of varying degrees. We’ve -- we’ve done what we could. This was Farm Station, you know…”

Scott nodded. “Alright. Let me call that in and we’ll get someone out here to help with transporting the injured.”

Pike launched forward and grabbed Scott by the shoulders, startling the other man. “Pike - what --”

“ _Call that in_?” echoed Pike, almost frantic. “Who? Where?” Then, his eyes widened further. “Are you telling everyone survived when you first broke away?”

Scott gently untangled Pike’s grip. “Pike. Charles. It’s been a decade, man. Did you think we _wouldn’t_ survive?”

“Jaha was so insistent that the ground wasn’t habitable,” babbled Pike. “That you were all dead, lost to us. But -- _ten years?_ ”

Scott grinned. “You can survive here. Maybe not easily, but we have. C’mon, let’s get some people together and I’ll introduce you to Kingston and the others from Azgeda.”

“Azgeda?”

Scott jerked his chin back. “Those guys in the fur.”

Pike gaped. “The savages?”

“Don’t say that around them,” cautioned Scott, with a frown on his face. “Those are our allies. There are entire tribes of people on the ground that survived the nuclear fallout. We trade with most of them, and we’re part of the Coalition.”

Pike’s mouth hung unattractively but he seemed to rally and, despite his uneasy glances at the Azgedians, he nodded and retreated into the Ark, shouting for some people to join him.

It took longer than Scott wanted, but after radioing back to Niagara Falls -- and they were near the edge of their range -- he managed to contact Byrne and request a few more trucks for transport.

There was wonder on people’s faces as they exited the Ark, some nervously and others with glee as they kicked up the snow or exclaimed at the trees and sunlight. Kingston kept the Azgeda warriors at a distance, but Scott and the other guards from Skaikru with him were polite or friendly enough that many of the other Arkers overcame their fear to look at them and their facial scars and warpaint curiously.

Scott joined the first truck, a bus of some sort, back to Niagara Falls. Pike sat near the front with him, along with a couple, Hannah and Abe Green. Facing them in the seats, Pike said, resignedly, “Okay, let’s have it.”

There was a general pause and then questions exploded from three different mouths: “Who survived?” “What have you been eating?” “Who are those people in the fur?” “Are we in danger of being attacked?” “Where is our son, Monty?” “Who else survived? Have you heard from GoSci?”

Scott, slightly overwhelmed, held up his hands. “Whoa, whoa. Slow down. Okay. To start: most of us survived the initial crash after the explosions. We were able to rally quickly and got any kids we could find into a dropship and the rest of us hunkered down in protected rooms. We have a working government in place with people in established roles. There is no hierarchy, um… for the most part…” Here, Scott looked very awkward.

“What does that mean?” asked Hannah cautiously.

“During our second winter, we met an Azgedian, although we didn’t know about the different kru at the time,” explained Scott slowly. “You need to keep in mind that when we came down, we were mostly the guards and Mecha and Flint station. The people in charge are those who were the heads of the sections anyway, and then a few others who stepped up and kept people organized and calm. Who helped us survive. Then Roan came, and he was our translator, and there was a bit of an issue when we first met with Podakru, and well… one thing led to another.”

Blankly, Abe muttered what Pike and Hannah were thinking. “Who’s Roan? What’s Podakru? And what do you mean?”

Scott sighed. “Most kru - erm, tribes - have a commander as a leader, called _heda_. Azgeda has royalty and they’re the only one. From what we understood, Roan felt like Azgeda got a raw deal because of it -- and, believe me, after seeing the hostility toward them, I get it, but it’s not like _they’re_ innocent either… anyway.” He cleared his throat. “Roan introduced our leader as a king.”

Pike stared. “A _king_? Like that’s any better than a _Chancellor_?”

“Well… to be fair, he didn’t want to be king…” muttered Scott, looking away. “We kind of pushed it on him after that and it’s been working fine since.”

Pike exchanged a look with Hannah and sat back in his seat, arms crossed. He was clearly taking a ‘we’ll wait and see’ approach. The rest of the trip was quiet until the bus turned on to a gravel path that turned into asphalt and people crowded the windows to stare at the buildings, people, and the occasional tram as it went by.

Pike’s mouth was open as he exited the bus, staring at the large gryphon statue outside the tall building at the base of the hill. The roar of the waterfalls was loud and thunderous but did not dull the ambient sounds of people on the street or even some food vendors trying to entice people to stop in the cold and sample their wares.

“Come inside,” urged Scott, gesturing to the large entranceway underneath an overhang. “We’re putting everyone up in the Crowne for the next little while until you get your bearings and find your own places to stay.”

Pike trailed after Scott, with Hannah and Abe beside him. Their heads swiveled back and forth as they took in the shiny floor, the chandelier hanging from a tall ceiling, the open double doors that led into a canteen, the scent of fresh food wafting toward them. 

Pike shot Scott a desperate look, and he chuckled. 

“Yeah, that food’s for you,” he said with a smile. “Go find a seat.”

Although rushed, it was orderly, and the people from the first two busloads moved into the warm restaurant, sitting at tables that weren’t metal; parents cautioned their child to eat slowly, and most ate their soups in silent contentment.

Pike sat nearest to the doors, one eye on Scott as he conversed quietly with a young guard who came to speak to him and then disappeared. Scott walked to Pike’s table, and asked, “Did you want to meet our ministers and king?”

Pike shot to his feet before his mouth even uttered, “yes, please,” with Hannah immediately after him. They must have made some type of commotion, because a middle-aged man in a similar guard’s uniform to theirs, but more worn and with different patches, appeared at their side. He was broad-shouldered, bald, and a bit on the short side with cool grey eyes.

“I’d like to come too,” the man said, his voice cold.

Scott’s mouth pursed. “Inspector Gus—”

“That’s _Major_ Gus, Sergeant,” the man smiled, but it was sharp-looking. He tapped on the insignia on his chest indicating rank. “The Ark had to fill their ranks quickly with most of the guard gone.”

There was a sour expression on Hannah’s face, but she turned quickly to hide it. Scott glanced at her and then sighed. “This way, then.”

He led them to the two elevators, entering the first one and inputting the top floor. There was a bit of a startled gasp from Hannah as the lift moved, but everyone quickly settled, and the ride up was silent. When the doors opened, they opened to the large rectangular public meeting room. Scott moved immediately toward them, leaving Pike, Hannah, and Gus to hover awkwardly by the elevator and windows.

“My God,” whispered Pike as he wandered toward the glass windows and ceiling, staring out from the height of twelve floors to view the waterfalls. He completely ignored the group of people standing at the far end of the space, clustered together.

He felt a presence stand next to him but he didn’t turn to look. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

“It’s incredible,” breathed Pike. “I never believed… I never even _dreamed_ to see something like this…”

He sucked in a breath and turned to face the person next to him. Startled, he blinked and gapped, “ _Jake Griffin_?”

The blond grinned, reaching out to shake Pike’s hand. “It’s good to see you, Charles. It’s been a while since we were both in school together.”

Pike sputtered out an incomprehensible response. His eyes slid past Jake, resting on other familiar faces: Nikola, Edison, Sinclair, Byrne…

“You survived.” His eyes were wide. “And you… moved in… here?”

Jake grimaced. “Yes and no. Our piece of the Ark pretty much came down in one section, only breaking up in low atmo. We ended up on two different sides of the Niagara river, but we managed to build a bridge and find the remains of this place. We then spent time rebuilding and scavenging what we could.”

“How long did that take?” asked Pike as the two moved to join the much larger group.

“Give or take a year,” replied a young man with a swarthy complexion. He shook Pike’s hand and introduced himself. “Malek Turkhel.”

Malek urged Pike to a seat, a bunch of folded chairs that Jake was hauling with Scott and Byrne’s help to the group. Pike gingerly sat, Hannah on one side and, unfortunately, Major Gus on the other side with a heavy scowl on his face.

Once everyone sat, names were exchanged, with Pike recognizing many from their import in their stations or through gossip once upon a time. But what Pike was much more curious about, was how Jake Griffin conducted himself.

A long time ago, Charles Pike was a teacher. He instructed students in survival skills, not like it was needed much in space, but it was what he excelled in when he was a student, in addition to combat training. He had no desire to join the guard, finding fighting distasteful, which left him with the option of a schoolteacher. And one of the benefits of being a teacher was the ability to engage in critical thinking.

He knew the hierarchy on the Ark was flawed. There shouldn’t be some implied caste system, where certain people from certain family names with careers in science or medical had more opportunities or access to things than others. The council, led by Thelonious Jaha and Abby Griffin and Marcus Kane, was about maintaining the status quo without forward thought. There was no flexible thinking that led to innovation, and after Diana Sydney’s failed coup nearly a decade previous, the ruling council had buckled down on people on the Ark, creating a restrictive and authoritative atmosphere. People were in open rebellion on the Ark before it crashed, completely set against a ruling council.

And yet, here on Earth, there was a council but led by a _king_. It boggled Pike’s mind.

As it was, Jake was sitting quietly, letting the others speak and answer Hannah and Gus’s questions. He made no move to interject or add any opinions, giving the impression of full trust and belief in the people around him.

While this was happening, a few people wandered into the large room, curious, and settled quietly in chairs they took from the wall. They set their seats up some distance away, but close enough to hear. Pike watched as Jake smiled and nodded at them and wondered who they were.

“So, let me get this straight,” began Gus, with clear hostility in his voice as he crossed his arms and scowled. “Griffin here is a fuckin’ _king_ , and you lot are his puppets – sorry, _ministers_. And it’s _not at all_ the same as the council on the Ark, despite a Griffin there, too. Now, don’t get me wrong – I don’t like Jaha but I report to Kane. And as far as I see it, once those survivors figure out where we are, they’ll come here and take over.”

Jake’s face was granite as he listened to Gus, but Byrne tightened her grip on her weapon from where she stood behind him, and Pike saw the few guards dotted around the room also tense at the threat.

Constance Little’s face was actively horrified. “Why would you _say_ that? We’ve worked hard to create our home here! We want everyone to live together peacefully!”

Ava Jordan agreed, her tone irate as she cried, “We are part of the Coalition and have good working relationships with the other krus. Our borders with Azgeda and Podakru are patrolled but no one breeches them with blood, and we have Azgeda’s respect. The council that I remember from the Ark could destroy all that we created in their ignorance!”

“Be that as it may, you’ve been left alone without oversight for almost a decade—”  
began Gus.

“ _Exactly_ ,” muttered Sinclair, not even bothering to hide his eye roll.

“—And you are still citizens of the _Ark_ , not… not,” Gus struggled to find the word he was looking for, and eventually spat, “ _Grounders_.”

There was a chilly silence.

“Major Gus,” began Jake, quietly, “While I understand your desire to see us reunited with the others from the Ark, it’s been ten years. We are no longer the same people we were when we were on the Ark.”

“You’re a _Griffin_ ,” sneered Gus, “You’re an Arker!”

“I am not,” replied Jake calmly, but his eyes narrowed. “I am _Skaikru_.”

A rousing cheer was led by those who had snuck in to watch and listen to the newcomers, and Pike watched as Gus’s eyes darted around the room at the proclamation.

“We are not Arkers anymore,” continued Jake, his voice rising in volume, so his words were heard. “We are Skaikru, a member of Heda Lexa’s Coalition, survivors of the earth. We have made a life for ourselves, Major Gus. We have Skaikru who have married Azgeda, Trikru, Podakru, and Delfikru. They have gone to live with them, now – just as we have had members of those kru join ours as Skaikru. We may have been borne in the stars, but we’re of the ground, now.”

Gus’s mouth was flat, a hard line. His cold eyes swept the room for support, even lingering on Hannah and Pike, but he found none.

“I am interested in learning what happened to the other pieces of the Ark,” said Jake. “Learning where they landed and doing our best to smooth any issues is a responsibility that Skaikru takes on. We are happy to help our Arker cousins acclimatize to the earth, even welcome them among us, but _we will not become them_.”

The implied _is that understood?_ lingered after his final sentence, and Gus swallowed thickly, realizing he lost. He dipped his head in acknowledgment and went silent.

Jake turned his attention to the rest of the people in their circle. “Now, where do we think the other pieces landed?”

“Blake indicated that the other breakups happened to the south,” answered Byrne with a clipped, professional voice. “As confirmed with Guardsmen Jones and Marshall, the latter who suggested Trikru or maybe Trishanakru. Clarke was with them at the time, and she also agreed with their assessment.”

Jake frowned. “Alright. Better to be safe than sorry. Let’s get a convoy together to prepare to bring people back here, but we’ll stop in Polis and speak to _Heda_ and gain ambassadorial support when we enter the other territories. If there are damages, we can provide reparations, to some degree.”

He looked around his ministers, all who nodded and agreed, verbally.

“Will you go by yourself?” asked Sinclair, a heavy frown on his face. “Callie’s already in Polis as our _bandrona_ – erm, ambassador,” he finished with an apologetic look at the newcomers.

“I probably should,” sighed Jake.

“Er, if I may…?” began Hannah, tentatively speaking up as she looked around the room with a pinched look to her face.

“Mrs. Green, of course,” said Jake politely.

Hannah flushed when all eyes turned to her, but she rallied herself well and began, “You should know… just before the Ark came down, the council sent ahead a dropship.”

Startled exchanges were made amongst the Skaikru.

“Another dropship?” murmured Sinclair to Nikola.

“Yes, and… there were several of our children on it,” continued Hannah, bitterness creeping into her voice. “Children who were in the Skybox – the _new_ one, I know the original came down with you – and some ‘volunteers.’”

“Do you know where they were supposed to land?” asked Constance.

Hannah shook her head. “I wasn’t close to the council to know.”

“Mount Weather,” interrupted Pike, causing everyone to look at him. He shifted uneasily in his seat. “I… overheard Kane discussing it. They were sent to Mount Weather, because originally—”

“It was meant to house food and survivors from the initial fallout,” sighed Malek, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is a disaster.”

“How so?” asked Hannah through gritted teeth. “It’s abandoned—”

“Mouth Weather _isn’t_ abandoned,” interrupted Byrne sternly, causing Hannah to pale. “The krus are at war with Mount Weather, if not actively avoiding it whenever they can. The survivors there can’t live on the surface without bio-suits and often kidnap any kru that wander too close to their territory. They’re never seen again. If your children are near…”

Hannah paled and Pike found himself gripping the edges of his seat at the thought of those children he taught survival skills to in their hands.

“My Monty…” murmured Hannah, slumping in her seat.

Edison Cheng leaned forward in his seat. “Who else was on the dropship?”

Pike and Hannah exchanged a glance, and then Pike began, “Monty Green, Hannah’s son. Um, John Murphy, I think. And Nathan Miller… Harper McIntyre, Jessica Cotton, John Mbege, and…” Pike paused, before saying, quietly, “Wells Jaha.”

Jake stared.

Nikola swore. “This is going to be a rescue mission and a bloodbath if they’re near Mount Weather.”

“We have to get to them before they do,” urged Malek. “Jake – _Skaihefa_ – we need to help them.”

Jake looked like he had aged years in the few minutes that had passed. “Yes, of course. I’ll head to Polis to speak to Heda about finding the survivors from the Ark pieces and smooth any diplomatic issues with the kru. But Clarke’ll want to come if only to look for the dropship.”

Byrne frowned deeply at this. “Both of you gone at the same time… Sir…!”

“Clarke has her guard, and Bellamy,” began Jake, “Besides, isn’t Octavia in Trikru right now, anyway? She was finishing her training with Indra. She can meet up with Clarke and the others.”

Byrne’s face was sour. “I’ll want to send a whole unit with Blake, sir. If the _hainofi_ is anywhere near Mount Weather, she’ll be seen as a prize to the _maunon_. She’ll need to be protected.”

“I’ll leave that to you then, Major Byrne,” teased Jake, the slightest bit lightening the mood of the group. Everyone knew Clarke chaffed having guards follow her around and only permitted Bellamy to be so close to her due to their friendship.

The group broke up, with some standing and leaving immediately (like Byrne, Nikola, Edison, and Aurora Blake); others, like Malek, Constance, and Sergeant Scott, remained behind to speak to Hannah, Pike, and Gus.

“We’ve got rooms assigned for you,” Scott said.

“And with the numbers you’ve given me, I can manage the distribution of food,” added Malek with a grin.

Constance sighed. “And I’ll know how many more children to add to the classes.”

Pike perked up. “Classes?”

Constance nodded. “I’m the Education Minister, Mr. Pike. But I’m getting old for it… my eyes aren’t the same and the long nights of reviewing curriculum isn’t as much fun as it was ten years ago. Heck, _five_ years ago.”

“You know, on the Ark, I was a teacher,” began Pike slowly.

“Oh, I remember. Earth Skills, wasn’t it?” grinned Constance.

“Changed it to Survival Skills when those kids were picked to go down to earth,” replied Pike, sourly. “But I always loved teaching. I only hope what I taught them helps them.”

“I’m sure it will,” soothed Constance. She reached out and looped her arm through Pike’s. “Now, Mr. Pike – why don’t we go to my office and discuss potential employment…?”

Pike grinned, letting the older woman lead him away from the group and toward a side door on the same floor.

Less than a week ago, Pike was sure he was going to die when the Ark broke apart and crashed to earth.

Less than three days ago, he was sure he was going to be slaughtered by the white-faced, fur-wearing men that surrounded the Ark.

Things were definitely looking up for him, and he wasn’t one to throw away a golden opportunity when it was offered to him.

* * *

{TBC}


End file.
